


From ferns that drop their tears

by Kaiyo_no_Hime



Series: To the waters and the wild [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Drama, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier suffers for the fandom, M/M, Smut, Torture, soft romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 43,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27935645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiyo_no_Hime/pseuds/Kaiyo_no_Hime
Summary: Jaskier, having rescued himself from the tender mercies of Nilfgaard, has dragged himself back to his ancestral home to apologize to his family with his dying breath.  But destiny has taken a turn on him, and he is saved and shown there can be no peace found in the razed grounds of his burnt home.So he is set back on the path again with the company of Eskel to deliver the information he gathered while spying on Nilfgaard to Geralt, racing against both the coming winter and the army that stalks the land, searching for the both of them.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: To the waters and the wild [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997212
Comments: 194
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier listened to the piercing cry echo through the darkness and wondered how long it had been there. It was his sister’s voice. One of his sisters’ voices. Was it Odeta or Kasandra? He couldn’t tell. He was tired. They were screaming.

It was so difficult to place a voice when it was screaming.

Had she been a ghost long? He didn’t think she was a banshee, but he didn’t remember how banshee were made. Wasn’t it something about death before a wedding? 

Maybe it was Agata. It pierced a little. Agata’s voice had always pierced a little when she was upset. Usually more about him stealing her fabrics to have a few suitable suits of his own. 

Hands were on his arms, shaking his chest, and the screaming began to take form into his name.

That couldn’t be right. Ghosts didn’t shake people. Not while shrieking their names and crying.

Salt water on his lips. Those were tears.

Jasskier groaned, blinking and trying to focus on the woman in the darkness of the night.

One of his sisters, hair tied back, dressed in shadows. He had hoped they had survived, fled Lettenhove before Nilfgaard had descended upon it and put fire to the village. Maybe a few had escaped, he couldn’t keep track of them all, but this one didn’t.

“’Gata.” Jaskier rasped, limp in her grasp.

He didn’t remember her being so strong. Just a bore obsessed with stories and forever raiding the library for books he wanted to read. Lifting all those books must have given her the strength of a witcher the way she was clutching at him. 

She hadn’t been able to carry him since he was a toddler.

“Odeta,” his sister corrected, pulling him into her arms, tears still streaming down her face. “I thought you were dead. What are you doing here!?”

Her body was warm and her arms firm, and Jaskier began to realize that Odeta, his closest older sister, wasn’t a ghost. He could feel her pulse, lovely and alive, and nearly started crying himself. He had been so sure they were all dead when he dragged himself up to the cracked stones of their old home, so sure that only ghosts would meet him.

Jaskier hadn’t meant to collapse here, in the entrance way. He had been trying to drag himself through to the family crypt. He had wanted to say goodbye to them all before he flung himself from the cliffs into the ocean below. A few parting words they had never been able to exchange when he had slipped away to Oxenfurt in the night those many decades before.

He and Odeta had been close growing up, but he didn’t think she would toss him over. She would have words for him about being an idiot, and would find a way to stall his plans. She always did. She was a good sister like that.

“What am I doing here? Brother dearest, what are you doing here,” she snapped, pulling back and sniffling. “If Nilfgaard finds you’ve returned they’ll raze the stones to get you!”

“Already razed the stone,” Jaskier coughed, trembling in her embrace.

Food and water had been faded, murky memories on the trail. A bite of leaves here, a sip of a flowing river there. But nothing more. No time to stop for more, they would be following, close on his heels. It had been a miracle that he had escaped at all.

Maybe it would be a miracle still. Odeta was here, she could deliver the message.

Carry the words north, over the mountains to the crumbling ruins of Kaer Morhen. The wolves would protect her, or at least not kill her. Better than her chances with Nilfgaard close behind.

“Then the bloody fools will do it a second time,” Odeta said, tears still shining on her cheeks. 

“’deta,” Jaskier gasped, his chest aching and his leg screaming. It wasn’t just the journey that had cut him down, his wounds reminded him. “I need you to go north, to the witchers of Kaer Morhen. They need to know-”

“And you need to rest,” Odeta cut him off, trying to wrap her arms around him and pulling at him. 

Jaskier felt the howl of agony tear away from his chest as he slumped against his sister, unable to do more than sob and shake. His veins burned with the iron that Nilfgaard had driven into him, trying to break him. 

“It’ll be okay, Jules,” she said, laying him back down and fussing with something in her hands in the darkness. A moment later and her wool shawl was bundled under his head. “A witcher passes through here from time to time, you can pass your message onto him in a few days.”

Not soon enough, Jaskier wanted to insist, not near soon enough. He needed to give Odeta his words now, and send her fleeing into the night. A passing moment was a moment too much, and he could already hear the steady thump of hooves upon the burned ground where Lettenhove had once stood.

“You have to know now,” Jaskier insisted, limp in his sister’s grasp. “The Emperor is Ciri’s father. Geralt needs to know.”

“Yes, yes,” Odeta said, trying to find his wounds, and him trying desperately to avoid her hands. His blood, his blood was poison, she musn’t touch his blood. “The Emperor is a siren’s father. More like the bastard born of one of their delightful screeches, the way he goes around burning the world. Only one of those nasty little cunts would think such behavior appropriate.”

Jaskier coughed, the laugh raking through his body, and he suddenly realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. This would be the last joke he would ever hear, the dainty cursed nothings spilling from his sister’s lips. It was worth it, but she needed to know. Geralt wouldn’t understand a mangled message, he needed to hear the full one.

She needed to run, and escape. Flee north, away from the iron and fire that would chase her, away from the shadows that would bite and sting. To the far flung north, where even he had never tread.

Where the wolves would protect her.

“Ciri, not siren,” Jaskier said, trying again. “He’s Ciri’s father.”

“Save your breath,” Odeta snapped, hissing as blood smeared across her hand.

Too much iron, he groaned. He could remember them hammering it into his body, spike after spike. They had laughed so hard as he had wailed and screamed. He hadn’t been able to removed the spikes in his left leg, he had already lost too much blood by then. 

He had just wanted to get home before he died.

“Promise me, please,” Jaskier begged, his sister wavering before him. A dancing, shimmering form in the shadows, all cool water and moonlight.

He needed her to promise. Geralt needed to know what was chasing him, _why_ Nilfgaard was chasing him, and why they would never stop. Destiny truly had it in for the white wolf, to tie him to the Emperor. 

“I promise,” Odeta said, wincing as her hand brushed across another bleeding wound, and Jaskier moaned as the pain sparked. “What did they do to you, they had to have known, this much iron.”

Jaskier coughed and gagged at the taste of copper, letting the blood drip down his cheeks. She would have to walk in circles around the floor, the whole family would, just to avoid burning the soles of their feet. There was no cleaning this much blood from the stone.

But she promised. She wouldn’t break her promise. She would swim away safely, and then Geralt would know the truth, and they would be safe. Everyone would be safe.

That’s all Jaskier could wish for as the darkness bloomed across his sight, and his sister wavered and disappeared into the shadows.

He had managed to keep them safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I lived!?
> 
> Me: you lived
> 
> Jaskier: I lived!
> 
> *Jaskier runs around dancing in glee*
> 
> Jaskier: I mean, the entire bloody, half starved corpse thing is quite unattractive, but it doesn't matter, I lived!
> 
> Me: ...
> 
> Jaskier: you're being quiet. I don't like it when you're being quiet. It's suspicious when you're quiet.
> 
> *Me remains quiet*
> 
> *Jaskier looks at tags*
> 
> *Jaskier begins swearing in several very colorful languages*
> 
> Me: hold on to your butts, it's gonna be a wild ride!
> 
> Jaskier: at least I get a last wild ride before the end!
> 
> Me: yeah, that too


	2. Chapter 2

The pain echoed through his bones, a steady beat that he could remember learning when he first picked up the lute. Time and time and time and time. He couldn’t even remember the teacher’s face, but he could remember the beat.

Only this time it was his entire body that echoed, not just soft fingers learning the sting of strings for the first time. His left thigh throbbed, an angry and agonizing feeling, but the bite was somehow withered. As if the teeth had all faded and been forgotten, his flesh having already broken them all.

The pain washed over him like cold summer waves, but he could feel it. He could feel all of it, and the tingling numbness that was his body rotting away from him was gone. For the first time in ages, Jaskier actually felt whole. 

He was confused by the feeling of soft furs beneath him, and the dancing brightness of a warm fire before him. It couldn’t have been a nightmare, the pain would have faded by now. But he could smell horse and musk, and the ever present lingering odor of rancid blood, the scent a clean Geralt always carried with him. Better than organs and dried goo, he had to admit, but still Geralt’s scent.

Maybe a creature had injured him, and it had been some sort of poison induced nightmare? Odder things had certainly happened.

Geralt had once been eaten by a fish, after all. A large fish, he would give him that, but it was still a fish.

“You’re finally awake,” Odeta said, and Jaskier tried to open his eyes, turning his face awkwardly toward her.

Not a dream then, just the nightmare his life had dissolved into. She was supposed to run, not stay here and roll him in front of the old kitchen fires. 

“Sister dearest,” Jaskier rasped, his throat dry and the taste of copper still thick on his tongue. “You were supposed to run north.”

Jaskier tried to sit up, but found his limp struggles merely shoved the stained red cloak to the side, letting the chill salt water air remind him that Lettenhove suffered the warmth of summer briefly, and he doubted it had felt any at all through the smoke that had loomed in the sky this year.

The smoke of nations burning as Nilfgaard struggled to fight their way north, ever hungry to capture their little princess.

“And leave you bleeding to death on the stones,” Odeta glared at him, reaching out and pulling the warm cloak back over him, tucking the edges in carefully.

It was then he saw her hands. Her beautiful, dainty little hands that had danced across loom and weft, and created such beautiful tapestries. They were bound now, in old stained bandages. Bandages that had not marred her before.

He had done that. With his blood he had done that. 

“Your hands,” Jaskier whispered, still staring.

How could he have been so selfish? To drag himself home just to die, pulling pain and agony into his sister’s life as he tried to fade away. Would she ever be able to weave again? Had he cost her that which she had loved so much?

“Her hands will be fine in a day or two,” a man said, handing Odeta a bowl and removing the cloak from Jaskier.

Jaskier shivered, and bit his lip to keep from screaming as the stranger prodded at his left thigh carefully, checking clean bandages. He was a witcher, his face scarred and the wolf head medallion against his chest clear. 

One of the wolves of Kaer Morhen.

He could ride the message to Geralt.

“You’ve been out a few days, but I’ve taken the iron out. Be grateful that you were unconscious,” the man said, satisfied with what he saw and pulling the cloak back over. “We’ll be able to ride north tomorrow.”

“Geralt needs to know,” Jaskier said. “The emperor of Nilfgaard-”

“Is Ciri’s father. Yes, your sister told me. And you’ll tell Geralt yourself once I take you north. Now, can you sit up or do you need help?”

Take him north? The man was babbling nonsense. He couldn’t go north, he could barely drag himself to Lettenhove, he would last ten minutes trailing after this witcher on the trails. And he couldn’t leave Odeta, she was alone here! 

Jaskier gasped in pain as the witcher carefully eased him to sitting, supporting him and Odeta sighed.

“Now, I know how you feel about mother’s fish stew,” Odeta said, and Jaskier could feel his stomach twisting.

His mother had been a fine woman with many talents, but her cooking skills had not been one of them, no matter how many times she argued the difference. And any time any of them took ill, brief and rare as it was, that stew was there to torture them as children.

“Please, kill me now, I beg you,” Jaskier squirmed in the witcher’s grasp. “Anything but that slow death!”

“You’re such a baby, it was never that bad,” Odeta tutted, holding up a spoonful of a milky broth, fish scales glistening.

“A sword, silver or steel it matters not, but more quickly than this fate,” Jaskier moaned, still trying to escape the witcher’s iron grip.

The witcher laughed, waving Odeta off, but holding Jaskier firm.

“Leave off, Odeta, there’s still bread and cheese. It’ll do him no good if he’s not able to keep it down.”

Odeta pouted, but nodded, putting the bowl to the side, and Jaskier slumped in relief. 

“Thank you kind sir, you have saved me from agonies of which you cannot imagine,” Jaskier said, looking upward. “Eskel or Lambert?”

“Eskel,” Eskel replied. “I’m surprised Geralt mentioned us at all.”

“Twenty years and a few good ales will loosen even Geralt’s lips,” Jaskier replied. “Though he didn’t say much more than that. Though I’m glad you’re here, I wasn’t sure how Odeta was going to be able to find you lot at all to bring you the message.”

“She’s more clever than you give her credit for, she would have managed.”

“I would have managed to get lost and found enough lakes and rivers to keep my attention until after Nilfgaard burned away or burned the lands away is what he means,” Odeta said, returning with thick slices of dark bread and a hard cheese.

It was like gnawing on stone, but Jaskier let the taste of it tickle across his tongue in delight. It was something, anything at all, that didn’t taste of blood or dirt, and for that he was truly thankful. He had forgotten how delicious each mouthful of food could be, the delicate flavors of salt and rye.

Eskel and Odeta finished their own slice while he was barely a quarter way chewing through his, humming in delight as he merely sucked on the bread. His jaw had long since become too tired to even bother attempting to chew.

Eskel took his food away, offering him a waterskin as he whined and grabbed for the food. 

“You’ll make yourself sick, and I need you strong enough to at least stay on the horse in the morning.”

Jaskier glared up at him, gulping down the sweet, clean water greedily until it, too, was taken from him. He had nearly forgotten the nonsense about being hauled north. He had gotten the message to Eskel, and Eskel would get the message to Geralt. There was no need to haul him along as proof.

“And why would you be hauling us north,” Jaskier asked pointedly. “You have the message, and the sooner and faster you’re there the better. No need to drag an old, crippled bard along on your journey.”

“Jules, you can’t stay here,” Odeta said quietly. “Yes, father is dead and mother and our sisters have left, and technically that makes you the Count, but the land is burned and the sea cries red, and you’ll do no one any good if you’re going to throw yourself in just to die.”

“I could swim,” Jaskier pointed out.

“You would tire of it, and we both know how well that would go.”

Jaskier drooped at that, but nodded. He would hate a life trapped away from the world, his music nothing more than sweet echoes across the shore. No more journeys, no more adventures. No more wandering where he would, his feet sore, sweat stiffening his chemise, but still an inn with an audience happy and waiting at the end of the day.

“I can’t leave you here, alone like this Odeta,” Jaskier tried to argue.

“I’ll still be around, there’s enough strands of ocean hair for me to weave for an eternity,” Odeta smiled, tears in her eyes.

And Jaskier let himself cry too, because he knew that was the truth of it. His mother and sisters had already returned to the water, and now his little sister would too, and he would be all alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I live!
> 
> Eskel: you do
> 
> Jaskier: and we ride north!
> 
> Eskel: we shall
> 
> Jaskier: for we must warn Geralt that they're taking the hobbits to Isengard!
> 
> Eskel: wut
> 
> Jaskier: Isengard! Isengard!
> 
> *Jaskier dances around and does the Isengard dance*
> 
> *Eskel still does not understand*


	3. Chapter 3

They rode in silence for the first two days. Jaskier too exhausted from his injuries and the fast pace Eskel kept them to, Eskel too much of a witcher to say anything without a need. The ocean fell away behind them, lost in the sooty forests lit with the freezing glare of a bleeding sun.

No matter how much water Jaskier drank, the taste of ash still layered thick upon his tongue. The world was a burning hell, and he had left his sister behind to the hopeful safety of the waves. Nilfgaard had been able to trap him with ease, but at least she could escape.

As evening began to settle Eskel led Scorpion from the path and through the underbrush to a small clearing near a stream. Jaskier sighed in relief, even sitting all day left him feeling as if he had gathered a skin of dirt and horse hair that he dearly wanted to wash away.

And a dip in a fresh flowing river would go a long way to soothe his aching wounds. All the poultices and potions in the world couldn’t wash the iron from his blood any longer.

“In all the years that Geralt mentioned you, he made more comments about your singing than your silence,” Eskel commented, helping Jaskier down carefully and beginning to set up a rough camp.

Jaskier leaned heavily, limping a step before finally surrendering and slipping gracelessly down onto the ground, grateful for the little bit of grass to grip as he bit his tongue to keep from hissing. Spending his days riding was certainly doing his leg no good, and he was half afraid to check the bandages to see if they were covered in blood again.

“I’m surprised he mentioned me at all,” Jaskier said. “He rather gave the opinion that I was a bit of a nuisance during our travels.”

“My brother doesn’t have the kindness with words that others might,” Eskel said, tending to Scorpion and relieving him of the packs and tack.

Jaskier snorted at that. He had traveled with Geralt for twenty years, and it hadn’t escaped his notice that the witcher used words like he used his sword; a weapon and a tool, nothing more. Although he had never seen the world give him a choice in the matter, others lashing at him with their tongues when there were no stones within reach.

Eskel approached, a tin of salve and a fresh roll of bandages in hand, and Jaskier slumped. It was necessary, but he was rather done with the pain that healing had brought him.

“You know,” Jaskier said, untying his pants and trying to gently pull them over his thighs. “Most usually charge extra for the strip tease.”

“I’m a witcher,” Eskel said, beginning to carefully unwind the bandages wrapped around Jaskier’s thigh. “Most charge extra just letting me in the establishment in the first place.”

Jaskier winced at the truth in that. Eskel was careful, frowning as he let his fingers run over Jaskier’s slowly healing wounds. The flesh was healing in thick starbursts, red and angry against the sky of pale flesh. Jaskier doubted that he would ever be able to freely walk again without pain, and hoped that at least Oxenfurt would have a position available to him when the time came for him to take up a cane. 

He watched as Eskel carefully massaged the salve, a sticky green paste that made him gag with the scent the first time he had smelled it, making sure to work the muscle and the flesh. Jaskier let his eyes flicker closed, enjoying the pleasant delights even as little shocks of pain made his leg twitch and dance in the witcher’s hands.

“I hope you were this gentle with my sister,” Jaskier sighed, laying back and staring up at the soot stained sky. “Not that I want the details, mind you.”

“I didn’t fuck your sister,” Eskel said, still working salve into the wounds farther down his leg.

“I find it doubtful that a witcher would make a habit of visiting the burned out remains of a poor coastal community if nothing had tickled his fancy,” Jaskier said. “I don’t mind, she’s as free as anyone else to have some tumbles of fun. It would be a bit hypocritical of me to get upset because she enjoys dark, golden eyed, and mysterious to warm her bed.”

“Books,” Eskel said, humming as he flexed Jaskier’s foot.

Jaskier tightened his grip on the grass, squeezing his eyes shut as pain sung up his leg. Was there still a nail in his ankle? Had he managed to twist it just limping to collapse, or had he managed to hurt it while riding?

Eskel’s hands moved with expert care, fingers rubbing across skin, and slowly the muscles began to loosen and the pain began to fade. Jaskier panted, sweat beading across his bow, and finally opened his eyes. Not more iron, just tight muscles. 

“I was looking for books. I do that at times, when I come across deserted buildings. It’s easier than paying triple in towns, those that have anything I have an interest in.”

“You went looking for books, and kept coming back for them?”

Eskel snorted a laugh. “No, your sister was happy to let me have a few titles from what little remained. But I enjoyed her company. Odeta is smart, and it’s been a long time since I’ve sat and had intelligent conversation on more than killing monsters and fucking whores.”

“Dress up like a horse and Geralt might prattle a little more to you,” Jaskier said with a laugh, sitting up and flexing his leg carefully.

The muscles tightened and wavered, but the pain was the deep throb of exhaustion and healing, not of rot. With Eskel’s gentle treatment, he may even forget the injuries were there until a hard winter frost came to remind him. Or a beauty in his bed asked seductive questions.

“He didn’t talk with you when you traveled together?” Eskel asked curiously, beginning to carefully rewrap his wounds.

“Grunted and swore at me a few times,” Jaskier said, wincing as the bandages tightened. “He wasn’t very fond of me toward the end. Rather glad I was gone, to be honest.”

“If he let you follow him around for more than a day, he was fond,” Eskel said. “He was certainly worried about you last winter, and asked us to keep an eye out for you.”

“Did he really,” Jaskier asked curiously, pulling up his pants and beginning to retie them in place gratefully.

“In his way,” Eskel said, sitting back. “He was afraid that Nilfgaard might try to grab you thinking you could lead them to Ciri. Apparently he was right.”

“Hardly,” Jaskier laughed. “They grabbed me because they thought I was spying on the emperor and they wanted to know who I was working for. They never did realize who I was.”

Eskel stared at him for a moment, and Jaskier waited patiently under the studying gaze. They had traveled together for a few days, but that was more a favor than a choice. Jaskier couldn’t safely stay in Lettenhove, and Eskel was hauling him north because his brother had asked it of him. But the mention of spies frequently turned a friendly face cold, in his experience.

He didn’t know what a witcher might think, he only knew that Geralt would disapprove. 

“Why did they think you were spying on the emperor,” Eskel finally asked.

“Partially because I was in a southern court to do a little spying, as a favor for an old friend from university. I don’t make a habit of it, though you would be surprised what a bard’s ears can hear,” Jaskier explained. “But, really, me and a pretty little thing found ourselves needing a place more private to enjoy ourselves, and it happened that we managed to blunder into the emperor’s guest rooms. And the guards found us out after the emperor himself returned.

“They rather disliked our explanation. Apparently the pretty little thing was a spy herself, which is hilarious given how intent she was at disrobing me. I had no secrets to hide from her, but Nilfgaard was of another opinion.”

“So they tortured you.”

“They tortured us both, really, though sadly she bore it poorly and didn’t last.”

Eskel thought on this a moment, and Jaskier nearly felt relieved about finally being able to tell someone about what had happened to him. Yes, his sister had known the rough brush strokes, but it still felt like it had been trapped, rattling in his mind like an animal trying to escape. 

Like him, trying to escape for all those months.

“But why iron,” Eskel finally asked. “That’s an oddity, even for them.”

“You’ve met my sister, did she never tell you?” Jaskier asked.

Eskel frowned, looking Jaskier up and down carefully. Jaskier grinned, all teeth and daring. It rarely came up, and he doubted even witchers knew of it, but it was there. He wouldn’t deny it.

“Naiads are all female, you can’t be one,” Eskel finally said.

“Not true, actually. It’s rare, but we exist. We just lack all the fun little benefits my mother and sisters have. I can sing, but hold me in a river and I’ll drown like any mortal man.”

“Geralt certainly knows how to collect them,” Eskel finally sighed, standing up and stretching. “Stay here and try not to drown yourself in the river, I’ll get us dinner.”

“I’ll try to keep myself from running and leaping through the trees in your absence,” Jaskier assured him, laying back in the grass.

He let himself drift off to the quiet evening settling into the forest around him, and the stream that whispered and spoke of stories of far off mountains that he had yet to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I'm not really sure that was my best work
> 
> Me: your pickup lines always need work
> 
> Jaskier: they do not! I will have you know that many have swooned upon becoming the intent of my flirtations!
> 
> Me: you tried to pick up Geralt with innuendo about bread in your pants
> 
> Jaskier: ... I did have bread in my pants...
> 
> Me: and then two warrior women by comparing their necks to ducks
> 
> Jaskier: swans, actually. Although I was a little drunk that time...
> 
> Me: and now you're making your moves by commenting on Eskel being free to fuck your sister
> 
> Jaskier: yeah, that was a little not good
> 
> Me: you really, really suck at picking up people with swords
> 
> Jaskier: which is a shame, because they really are so hot
> 
> Me: you're lucky they let you follow them
> 
> Jaskier: because I'm pretty
> 
> Me: because you can keep up and keep needing a rescuing
> 
> Jaskier: ... that too


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier swatted at the mosquitoes that buzzed around his face, miserable and itchy as he carefully kept himself balanced atop Scorpion as Eskel led him through the swamp. The murky water was already up to Eskel’s knees, and Jaskier glanced to the sides, checking for movement.

Swamps were dangerous, he had always been warned. Swamps were where Geralt had collected a good chunk of his lesser, but more frequent, contracts as well. They bred monsters as well as insects, and Jaskier had no plans to become yet another victim to one.

“Eskel,” Jaskier said, breaking the cautious silence, still keeping an eye on the weathered trees that half surrounded them. “I can’t help but notice that we’ve been going out of our way to avoid the ridden path.”

It had been ten days since they had set out from Lettenhove, and Eskel had been careful to keep them away from villages, always cautious to take the less worn paths. And Jaskier had dismissed it as reasonable paranoia until now. Nilfgaard was hunting for a witcher, and though Eskel was not his brother he very much doubted the southern army would care.

Having survived the tender mercies of Nilfgaard himself, he would not wish such a fate upon him. But there was a difference between taking the path less traveled and throwing safety to the side and risking their lives to avoid the chasing army. And that line had been crossed when the last meandering footpath had ended at the edge of the swamp, and Eskel had chosen to continue onward.

The fact that a kikimore or a gaggle of drowners hadn’t caught them had been a miracle. Paths in the woods often did not end at the edge of the swamp without reason. Had they seen another person in the area at all he did not doubt that one of them would have mentioned the eerie swamp and tales of missing travelers.

“I removed twelve iron spikes from your leg,” Eskel said, not even bothering to look back. “I was being polite in assuming you didn’t want any more.”

Jaskier stretched his left leg out of habit after it was mentioned, and was happy to note the throbbing pain was easing to a manageable level. He wouldn’t be taking steps through unseen marsh water any time soon, but when they hit solid ground again he would need to start walking. It would do him no good at all if he caused more damage through disuse than the iron had.

“No, you’re quite right there,” Jaskier said cheerfully. “But I doubt anyone will notice if we pass through for some bread and cheese.”

And maybe a warm bed for the night, and some ale, and hot bowl of stew. But he knew that lingering for even a meal at a tavern would be too much, let alone staying in an inn. If he had learned anything from his time with Geralt, it was how much civilization drove a witcher to grunting, brooding distraction.

“They’re keeping their eye out for witchers,” Eskel said, continuing to lead Scorpion on, and Jaskier noticed uneasily that the water was rising above Eskel’s knees now. Soon they would be swimming through the swamp, not walking.

“But not dirty, limping men,” Jaskier pointed out. “If Nilfgaard had truly been after me when I had escaped they would have caught me. I wasn’t exactly fleet of foot on the roads north.”

“But if a single person recognizes you as Jaskier, the White Wolf’s bard, you’ll have given the game away. And where you are they’ll hunt for a witcher too, white haired or not.”

“I very much doubt anyone would see me as a bard,” Jaskier said, looking down at his fingers wistfully. “It’s more than just the lute that made me who I was.”

“One look at your hands-”

“You think Nilfgaard only gifted their tender mercies upon a single leg,” Jaskier asked. “They were quite diligent in their bodily caresses, I assure you.”

The only difference being in that they had removed some, and he had removed others. But they had been there still the same. Painful, bleeding poison into his blood with every moment, reminding him that they demanded answers and he had been unwilling to give. 

And answers he had been without. He had been lucky that they had thought him a random spy disguised as a lord, rather than untie his true identity. He doubted he would have lived to see Lettenhove that one last time if they had known. 

Eskel remained silent, and Jaskier was happy to let him brood in peace. He mourned the thought of bread or cheese crossing their hands any time soon, but it couldn’t be helped. Not if they were to remain safe.

“Eskel,” Jaskier said warily, his eyes focused to the shadows of the trees to their right.

“I see it,” Eskel confirmed. “Kikimore.”

Eskel drew his silver sword, and stared up at Jaskier for a moment.

“Stay with Scorpion,” Eskel said, and Jaskier nodded, watching the witcher begin slowly pacing toward where the creature was emerging from the shadows.

Jaskier snorted, pulling out a long dagger he had in his boot, but staying astride the horse. He had a tendency to find himself in danger he had to admit, but he wasn’t nearly dumb enough to throw himself into it. Not when Eskel could clearly handle it on his own.

It wasn’t even a fight worth noting for a song. A few good strokes, a flash of witcher magic, and the creature was dead. 

Eskel didn’t bother carving it up for trophy parts, Jaskier noted thankfully as the witcher returned with only his sword in hand. True, most parts were only good as proof that the creature had been slain, but Geralt always managed to find the most disgusting things to bring along under the excuse that they could be sold for good coin later.

He was usually right, but Jaskier never wanted to tell him that. There was something so unappealing with watching your step while drowner brains leaked from a sack tied to the horse walking in front of you that it stilled his logic every time. Even Roach had been nippish about a few limbs in the past, which was a wonder given how she merely took the rest of Geralt’s witchering business with measured stride.

Eskel sheathed his sword again quietly, eyes searching the surroundings, but said nothing as he gave a short nod and started leading the way forward once more. Jaskier, always a little more wary, let his eyes trail over the surrounding waters a little more carefully before he sheathed his knife. Hadn’t Geralt mentioned something about kikomore living in groups? Although, if they were smart, a quickly dead one would dissuade others from approaching.

“You’re a lot quicker about that than Geralt,” Jaskier commented, breaking the silence. “And you don’t get all fancy and spin like Geralt does.”

Eskel snorted at that, and Jaskier smiled. It was good to be traveling with a witcher that at least showed some form of emotion, and answered back. Scorpion, while a good horse, just wasn’t as talkative as Roach had been.

“He still spins even in simple kikimore fights,” Eskel asked, pausing for a moment and feeling the path out with his foot.

“When he isn’t busy getting swallowed. Is that why he gets covered in guts and goo more frequently? You don’t seem any worse for wear, outside of the fragrant path you’ve chosen for us.”

“Geralt always was a bit of a show off, thought it added to the Witcher persona. Vesemir tried as hard as he could, but even he couldn’t beat some of the flounce out of him.”

“Vesemir,” Jaskier asked curiously.

“Our sword trainer, raised most of us since we were children,” Eskel explained, his pace slowing as the water seemed to deepen. 

“And he never taught you just how lovely and magnificent the color red is to set you apart from the crowd? Or the scenery around you?” Jaskier asked with a pointed glance.

As amazing as Eskel looked in the color, it did set him apart quite obviously from the washed out colors of the swamp, and he could only imagine that, outside of the blazing beauty of a select few forests, he was a prime target painted against the trees. 

“I look good in red,” Eskel said defensively, tugging on his jerkin lightly. “It brings out the color of my eyes.”

“And you’re calling your brother showy for twirling like a ballerina during fights,” Jaskier said with a smile.

It seemed that each witcher was certainly adding their own little bit of showy flair to the profession. It almost made Jaskier wonder what the world had been like when the schools had still been running, and the forests teeming with them. He had an amusing image of burly men flouncing to dance numbers in coordinated costumes, and could barely hide his grin.

Scorpion snorted, stopping suddenly and shaking his head, bringing Jaskier out of his little revery.

Eskel glanced around, hand on the pommel of his sword, and Jaskier eyed the trees nervously.

Moments later he found himself staring up at the sky as Scorpion reared, throwing him from the horse’s back, and he wondered numbly just how hard this was going to hurt. The cold of the water stole his breath from him, slamming into his back and wrapping around him in a chilly grip as he sank down against the mud.

He could feel hands clawing at him, nails ripping through cloth and into flesh, and he realized that they must have stumbled across a nest of drowners. He thrashed wildly, his leg screaming as something slammed hard against it, his lungs burning for air.

But the world was a wash of mud and pain and frigid cold, and shallow as the water may have been he couldn’t find the surface again. He was finally able to reach out and pull the knife he kept sheathed in his boot, the blade a murky blur in the water as he thrashed it at the drowners wildly. The black ichor of the creatures darkened the water, and finally a flash of red reached through the water and hauled him back to the surface.

Jaskier choked and gagged, his lungs struggling for air as he leaned against Eskel gratefully. The corpses of three drowners floated in the water around them, and Jaskier wanted to spit and glare at them for ruining their ambling journey through the swamp. He settled for leaning over and vomiting instead, Eskel’s warm hand rubbing soothing circles on his back as he helped hold him up.

“You weren’t lying, were you,” Eskel finally said, breaking the silence as Jaskier spat a last mouthful into the water.

“No,” Jaskier confirmed.

His mother had gifted him with many things, but the more mystical parts of his heritage were far beyond his grasp.

“Fuck, you’re freezing,” Eskel cursed as Jaskier began to shake in his arms. 

The witcher turned and whistled for Scorpion, the horse having wisely bolted to a safe distance during the short fight, holding Jaskier tight and rubbing his arms. The water continued to soak Jaskier through, his clothes heavy against his skin, his boots filled, and not even Eskel’s witcher warmth was keeping the chill at bay.

“At least there will be a fire tonight,” Jaskier said, his teeth chattering as Eskel carefully placed him back on the horse and began treading quickly forward.

Jaskier kept his knife in hand this time, Eskel’s sword drawn, as they made their way toward solid, and, hopefully, safer ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I'm wet
> 
> Me: yeah, you are. Can you two stand over there please?
> 
> Eskel: over here?
> 
> Me: a little farther
> 
> *Eskel and Jaskier step back a few paces*
> 
> Me: yeah, more like social distancing times twenty a bit back
> 
> *Eskel begins to start stepping back*
> 
> *Jaskier glowers*
> 
> Jaskier: we don't smell that bad!
> 
> Me: you haven't bathed in nearly two weeks and just went swimming in a swamp. I've stepped through horse shit that smells better than you at this point
> 
> *Scorpion nods in agreement*


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier snuffled against his hard pillow and drew the warm arm that had moved back over him. He knew that the sun had since rose, not long before but enough light that he couldn’t ignore it with closed eyes any longer, but that didn’t mean he wanted to remove himself from the living furnace he had fallen asleep atop.

Even if that living furnace did smell of rancid swamp water and drowner guts. He couldn’t fault Eskel for that, he was quite sure he smelt quite the same by now. Probably worse, considering he had gotten a full body dunking. Poor Scorpion was going to have hell carrying him today.

“It’s morning,” Eskel rumbled, his arm moving away again much to Jaskier’s disappointment.

“It’s cold,” Jaskier said, reaching out and trying to pull Eskel’s arm back over him.

It would snow for a few months yet, so how had it managed to get so cold in the morning? It was a bad sign for a hard winter, and he was almost grateful he would be riding it out in Kaer Morhen. Between Nilfgaard and the cold, the world would not be a pleasant place to walk this winter.

“We can’t spare time for a fire,” Eskel said, his hand rubbing circles on Jaskier’s bare back. “Are you feeling better?”

“I was wet, not dying,” Jaskier reminded him, blinking his eyes open.

Scorpion looked as non plussed as he felt to be awake right now, but Eskel was right, they did need to get going. The quicker they disappeared up the side of a mountain and out of Nilfgaard’s reach the better. Jaskier just wished that, perhaps maybe, their urgent escape might provide a few more comforts than cold meals and threadbare bed rolls.

At least Eskel had managed to dry his clothes last night, so he wouldn’t freeze to death on the road. Nothing could remove the stains, though. Just a quick dash into a nearby town and he could at least buy some soap. No one would suspect him wearing trail stained clothes and limping, after all. Hell, wrap a cloak on him and he probably just looked like every other refugee fleeing north along the roads.

“You were hypothermic,” Eskel corrected him. “That is dying.”

“Better now,” Jaskier said, closing his eyes and trying to absorb as much of Eskel’s heat as he could.

“Your lungs feel fine? Your leg?” Eskel asked. His hand still gentle against Jaskier’s back.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier reassured him. “I’ll probably try to walk today to start stretching the muscles.”

“I’m sure Scorpion would appreciate the rest,” Eskel said.

His arms slid away and Jaskier curled up on himself as Eskel left the bed roll, carefully tucking the blankets back in around the glaring man. With a careful stretch, muscles rippling under skin and scars, Eskel began pulling down his clothes from the line he had strung and dressed himself.

Eskel’s warmth still lingered in the blankets, but Jaskier knew it would be fading soon, even a proper bed wouldn’t have been able to keep it very long in this cold. There was nothing for it but to rise carefully and meet the day. The faster they were at Kaer Morhen, the faster he could enjoy a fire and a proper bed, he tried to reassure himself.

Eskel tossed Jaskier’s clothes over his face, and Jaskier pulled a face. But it did save him from having to greet the chilly day in nothing but his small clothes, even if he did appreciate the sight of Eskel having done so.

“I need to check your leg,” Eskel said, interrupting him as he began pulling the clothes into his little nest. 

Jaskier paused for a moment, his hands tracing along the blankets, trying to figure out how best to expose just a single leg without the rest of him freezing, but quickly gave up. There was no use for it, and he needed to actually get up and greet the day anyway. He’d be limping along, leaning against Scorpion and sweating the last of the swamp off his skin within the hour anyway.

May as well get a head start.

“Usually people ask to get under the covers me, not have me leave the covers for them,” Jaskier said with a grin.

Eskel snorted, the tin of salve in his hands. The wounds were healed enough that, hopefully, the swamp wouldn’t have provided the opportunity for infection. While he trusted that the message could safely get north to Geralt without issue, he was beginning to actually believe that it could be him that would deliver the message.

He wanted it to be, if not just because this all had the makings of an amazing epic. 

“Of course, you were so lovely last night,” Jaskier commented, struggling to get at least his shirts on before he froze.

“You’re just saying that because I lit a fire for you,” Eskel said, carefully lifting Jaskier’s leg and examining the wounds.

“It was a lovely fire,” Jaskier said, shivering as he lost the last little heat from the blankets.

Eskel’s fingers were gentle against his skin, wiping any dirt away carefully with the torn end of a bandage. He was silent as his hands traveled upward, the movements slow but sure, and he began kneading the flesh, working the stiff muscles and watching for any signs of pain. 

Jaskier bit his lip, the gentle fingers caressing up his thigh and reminding him just how very, very long it had been since anyone had traced their hands up his thighs with such careful concentration. He leaned back as Eskel nodded to himself, finally opening the tin of salve and beginning to massage the freezing goo into his skin.

Jaskier gasped, the cold of the salve biting against the heat of Eskel’s fingers, and he was quite sure that this was something that the witcher was doing on purpose. It was so cruel, to work so carefully up his leg, and then begin to trail them down again.

Jaskier swallowed as Eskel finally finished, the last traces of warmth fading from his ankle. He flexed his foot carefully and was happy that it was just a dull ache, though he was sure it would stiffen again when the cold seeped back in.

“You should be able to walk a little today, but if it starts to hurt tell me,” Eskel instructed, laying out Jaskier’s trousers and gently guiding his legs into them.

“Do you always do everything in reverse,” Jaskier asked, shifting painfully as he waved Eskel off.

He wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t dress himself yet. In fact, he prided himself on being able to dress while climbing down walls and escaping out windows. It was quite the handy talents at times, especially now when he could twist into his pants without pulling a single muscle.

“It’s better to soften the muscle before putting the salve on,” Eskel started explaining.

“I meant putting my clothes on instead of taking them off,” Jaskier said. “First you’re pulling me out of blankets, and then putting my clothes back on. I would be offended if I didn’t think I could blame it on the smell.”

Eskel’s hands paused for a moment as he fumbled with the tin of salve, staring intently at the ground. Jaskier could read a room well enough, and a witcher’s face after twenty years, to know that he had overstepped his bounds.

“Sorry,” Jaskier apologized, his fingers working at the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m an outrageous flirt at the best of times, I didn’t mean-”

“I’m not offended,” Eskel said, cutting him off and standing, his fingers tracing over the lid of the tin. “It’s just, with you and Geralt, he’s my brother.”

“I never fucked Geralt,” Jaskier corrected him. “He prefers his partners rather more buxom that I’ll ever be.”

Eskel looked at him at that, honestly surprised, and Jaskier nearly laughed. His face was still the grim stoic mask that all witchers seemed to default to, but there was just the slightest widening of his eyes, and a slight pull of the scars on his right side. Not an open book, but certainly a book to be opened.

“You traveled with him for years,” Eskel started.

“Decades. And no, not once. I enjoyed the Path with him, he was my friend, but we were never lovers,” Jaskier said.

He was almost wistful at the memories. Many fun ones, if not always pleasant, and they had certainly made his a life he had loved living. Yes, he had missed warm beds and clean clothes, but to have seen the world? To have walked to the very edge of it and returned, song in hand and voice echoing freely? That had been amazing.

It had been worth everything. Even if that friendship was most likely lost to him now, at least it had been there.

“He is very fond of you,” Eskel finally said. 

“Was, we didn’t part well,” Jaskier said, reaching out and accepting Eskel’s hand as he rose carefully to his feet. “He was rather cross that I had ever traveled with him at all by the time we parted ways.”

“He’s not good with words, you know that,” Eskel reminded him. “The world hasn’t been as kind to us as they have you.”

“Not words like that,” Jaskier said, limping toward Scorpion, Eskel a careful step to the side, matching his gait.

“Then he can apologize when you meet this winter,” Eskel told him, his hand warm and gentle on his shoulder.

“We’ll see, though I doubt even I have the ability to pull such miracles from a wolf’s mouth,” Jaskier said with a grin.

Eskel smiled, his eyes warm, and nodded. And Jaskier nearly believed him, that maybe, just maybe, Geralt would apologize for being an ass. For the first time in twenty years. But then Eskel was packing up the bedroll and blankets, and the cold of the winter bit at him, and he remembered who he was and his life.

And the cloud passed back over the sun, and his world was in stark relief once more.

“Now, come on. We have a long day, and you need to work that leg. You’ll be useless in bed by nightfall if you don’t keep the muscles stretched,” Eskel said with a grin. “No one likes a bed partner that isn’t flexible.”

Jaskier leaned against Scorpion and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier rolls dice*
> 
> Jaskier: I got an 18
> 
> Eskel: I got a 10
> 
> Me: Eskel, you are confused about the relationship between Jaskier and Geralt
> 
> Eskel: I am confused by the relationship between Jaskier and Geralt
> 
> Me: Hush. Jaskier, you flirt successfully, but you have to lead into it
> 
> *Jaskier grins*
> 
> Me: and you have to keep it in your pants.
> 
> Jaskier: always?
> 
> Me: for now. Eskel isn't rolling high enough
> 
> *Eskel glares at dice*


	6. Chapter 6

Eskel bit his lip and said nothing about the pained wheeze that caught in Jaskier’s throat as he walked behind, stumbling over roots and stones as he continued to insist that he was capable of walking. The stench of pain that rolled off him nearly had Eskel reaching out and just strapping him to Scorpion’s back.

He could better deal with days of frustrated whining than he could knowing the other man was in agony. But, at the same time, he knew that this was something that Jaskier needed. He needed to be able to feel whole again, even if Eskel doubted he would ever really have full use of his left leg. Nimble fingers and a good salve could only do so much, but at least Jaskier could walk at all.

He had seen other men perish from less.

But, at this rate, he was half afraid that he would see Jaskier perish from it. And, though they had set out early, they has slowed enough, and the back trails he had chosen were long enough, that he was becoming worried about making the pass before the winter snows truly hit. Even alone he wouldn’t dare the climb up to Kaer Morhen in deep snow. That was a way to end with a white grave and a frozen corpse good only for shocking his brothers when the spring thaw set them free.

Eskel slowed, turning and giving Scorpion a good face rub. Jaskier glowered at him, leaning against the horse’s side, sweat trickling down his face. His lips were tight with pain, and Eskel knew he had made the right choice. Jaskier needed to stretch his leg and work the muscle, but he was going to destroy himself if he kept at it.

“Scorpion needs a bit of a rest and a water break,” Eskel said.

Jaskier continued to glare, still leaning heavily against the horse. Scorpion just switched his tail at a fly, ignoring the building tension.

“Scorpion could get for days like this without stopping,” Jaskier growled out. 

“But it’s not good for him, he needs a bit of rest from time to time. If he strains something pushing him is just going to make it worse,” Eskel said.

Scorpion began investigating a small clump of grass curiously, taking a step away from the barely visible path that Eskel had dared to call a road when they started following it. By this point he was nearly entirely sure it was just an animal path, but it saved them the risk of running into anyone. They may come across a hunter or two if they were unlucky, but not a troupe of Nilfgaardians. 

Jaskier’s stood, trembling, and glared at Eskel. Eskel could see why his brother put up with the other man now, he was stubborn enough to actually put up with Geralt. It must be like two rocks trapped in a room and bouncing against each other when they were together. It was a wonder they hadn’t killed each other after all that time.

“Scorpion is just fine,” Jaskier hissed. “He’s never been better! He’s-”

Jaskier’s left leg collapsed from beneath him, sending him to a crumpled heap on the ground with a sharp cry. Eskel is there a moment later, rolling Jaskier on his back and checking his leg. Jaskier is gasping, the smell of his pain turning Eskel’s stomach, but there is no blood.

He can feel the quivering muscle under his hands, tight and throbbing, and he curses under his breath. Jaskier had pushed himself too far, and now the muscles were seizing. There was nothing he could do for him but hope that rest alleviated the pain.

Either way, Jaskier was in for a miserable journey on Scorpion’s back for at least the next day or two.

“I’m better than this,” Jaskier said, eyes clenched and tears streaming down his face.

His knuckles were clenched white, and Eskel was surprised he could even talk. He could only nod, his hands resting and warming the muscles, kneading it lightly. He had seen, and experienced, enough muscles pressed past their limit that he could at least help a little. But Jaskier was no witcher, and he needed time.

Time and rest, which they had neither.

“You’re doing fine,” Eskel tried to reassure him, working the calf carefully. 

Jaskier whimpered, his foot thrashing, but Eskel pressed on. The twelve scars radiated pain and agony, and Eskel was worried that muscle had torn under the skin. All the salve in the world couldn’t help then. The scent of Jaskier’s blood in the air was noxious as the injured man bit his lip, his leg thrashing in Eskel’s hands.

Jaskier’s eyes were bright as Eskel looked back at him, pleading for anything, but Eskel just shook his head. 

“You’ve overworked the muscle, you’ll need to stay off it for a few days at least,” Eskel said, hoping that was the extent of the damage.

He would have to check it carefully, but if it was worse there was nothing more he could do for it until he could get Jaskier to a healer. And the only people who he trusted at this point were in Kaer Morhen. Even at their fastest pace it could still be too long until they got there.

“You’ll have to ride Scorpion,” Eskel told him, his horse still munching away at whatever he had found. 

“We’re going too slow,” Jaskier rasped, his leg finally still in Eskel’s hands. “We need to go faster, winter-”

“Winter will wait until we get to the keep,” Eskel tried to reassure him. “You’re no good to anyone dead from infection.”

Jaskier shook his head, trying to sit up. Eskel helped him up, Jaskier wincing as his leg shifted to the side. He would have to keep his eye out for some sort of pain killer that was human safe. If it got worse, he would have to consider Axii. He hoped this was the worst of it though, the thought of forcing anything on Jaskier’s mind was abhorrent.

“Geralt needs to know,” Jaskier insisted, grabbing Eskel. “This can’t wait. Leave me at the nearest town, and ride.”

“No,” Eskel told him sharply, placing his hand over Jaskier’s. “I told you I would bring you to Kaer Morhen, that you would deliver the message to Geralt yourself, and you will. I give you my word.”

Jaskier glared at him, but Eskel ignored him. The pain would be difficult for the other man to bear, but he could. He had escaped and limped home, he could handle riding Scorpion to Kaer Morhen. Or, at least, until the path to the keep. If the winter came early Jaskier would need to be strong enough to climb, or Eskel would have to carry him.

Eskel gathered Jaskier in his arms, the other man a touch warmer than he would have liked, and whistled for Scorpion. Scorpion swat his tail at him, but turned and came obediently, still chewing on a last few strands of greenery. Jaskier, thankfully, did not struggle as Eskel carefully lifted him onto the horse’s back, though he still glowered. 

“You’re being foolish,” Jaskier argued.

“It’s what us witchers are,” Eskel shrugged. “Does your leg feel any better?”

Jaskier paused for a moment, Eskel’s hand on his leg, kneading at his thigh. His lips were still drawn tight, but his color was returning and sweat no longer beaded at his forehead. A moment later he nodded, and that was enough for Eskel.

Just being near him no longer made him want to lean over and vomit. He would just have to watch Jaskier more carefully, and work his leg with him in the evenings, when he could safely have the other man rest when needed. 

“If we-”

“No towns,” Eskel reminded him.

No people, no one who could be easily bribed to tell about a witcher wandering north. No one who could tell Nilfgaard anything at all. He didn’t doubt that Nilfgaard would be more interested in slitting throats to silence voices this far north. Sodden had slowed them down, but they were still creeping farther and farther north, their little squads deadly little fingers across the land.

Jaskier hissed and Scorpion snorted as the man tightened his grip on his mane. Eskel didn’t look back. Jaskier had been determined to avoid having Eskel notice his pain before he collapsed, the least Eskel could do now was let him suffer in peace. He was safe on Scorpion’s back, and that would have to be enough until they made camp this evening.

They could stop at the next good stream. Scorpion, despite Jaskier’s insistence, was in need of a good nights rest, and letting him enjoy a few more hours of grazing would do wonders. It would also give him time to properly examine Jaskier’s leg, and see how much damage had been done by letting the man press himself past his limits.

How had Geralt managed to travel with him for twenty years? Eskel hadn’t traveled with him for twenty days and he had already managed to nearly let the man injure himself.

They continued walking in silence, the cold autumn sun beginning to set before they finally found a place to set up camp for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Eskel stares at Jaskier nervously*
> 
> Jaskier: I'm fine!
> 
> Eskel: your leg's just come off
> 
> Jaskier: no it hasn't
> 
> Eskel: yes it has!
> 
> Jaskier: just a flesh wound
> 
> Eskel: you're still bleeding!
> 
> Jaskier: I'm invincible!
> 
> Eskel: you're a bard!
> 
> *Jaskier passes out from blood loss*
> 
> *Scorpion refuses to go anywhere near the two nutters*


	7. Chapter 7

Jaskier panted and moaned as Eskel continued to dig his fingers into Jaskier’s calf, kneading at the muscle and watching Jaskier’s foot twitch carefully. The fire popped, sparks flying, but Eskel continued to concentrate on Jaskier’s leg. He paused to slather more warmed salve onto Jaskier’s leg, and continued to massage it in, fingers ruthless.

“Does it hurt,” Eskel asked as Jaskier’s breath stuttered, his back arching slightly.

He could smell pain, but it wasn’t the noxious aroma of misery. He could swear he could almost smell undertones of lust lacing the air, but that couldn’t be right. For all the other man flirted, he doubted that a grimy witcher digging his fingers into his calf was a turn on.

Hell, he had never really smelled anything but a bag full of gold coins be arousing in a partner, and even then it was greed more than lust. But Geralt had often grouched about how his bard wandered from bed to bed, warming the whole continent, so what did Eskel know. The man clearly didn’t mind the company of witchers, maybe that meant in bed too.

Though he had been honest when he had said he had never slept with Geralt.

“Very much so,” Jaskier said, his voice raspy. “You should work your way a little higher, the thigh most definitely is feeling neglected.”

Eskel snorted at that, but nodded in agreement. The worst of the muscle strain seemed to be in the calf, it had taken the brunt of the punishment with the iron spikes, and Jaskier dragging himself home with them still embedded in his leg had done nothing for him. But he could understand putting his needs above pain, witchers were taught to do that as well from a young age.

With another few fingers of salve he began to move his hands upward. The thigh was tense, but not the rock stiff agony of his calf. So, carefully, softly, Eskel began to rub the salve into the still throbbing wounds. The skin had healed over, little kisses of red torn into white flesh, with angry scars spidering outward. He couldn’t imagine how painful they must have been, the spikes left in to rot his body from the inside out for months.

Jaskier gasped as Eskel moved his hands over to the inner thigh, lightly kneading at the muscle, testing the waters to see how much work needed to be done. Jaskier shifted again as Eskel’s hands worked their way up, the other man’s breaths beginning to come a little faster. Not panting, not yet, but enough to change the mood.

Thick tension lingered in the air, and Eskel swallowed. He wasn’t sure how to approach this. Jaskier was wounded, and under his care, it would be wrong of his to take this a step further. Jaskier smelled of lust, but wanting and doing were two completely different things. And he didn’t know if it was just Jaskier being comfortable enough to still want while in his company, the other man could be imagining someone else’s hands on him right now.

That someone quite possibly being his brother.

Jaskier’s hand came to rest on his, tearing Eskel from his thoughts. He looked into Jaskier’s eyes, his pupils blow wide, the bright cornflower blue being devoured by the darkness within, and swallowed. 

“Please, don’t stop,” Jaskier rasped, and Eskel nodded, finally remembering to work his hands.

But Jaskier didn’t lower himself onto the bedroll, and didn’t look away.

And didn’t move his hands from Eskel’s.

Eskel’s hands continued to slide across Jaskier’s bare thigh, his fingers working the muscle underneath carefully. Jaskier’s breathing increased, and he bit his lip, but Eskel continued, his eyes never wavering from the other man’s face. Sweat dotted at his temple, and Eskel swallowed hard, the air heady with the scent of arousal.

Eskel’s hands slid farther up, and Jaskier gasped, biting back a moan, and Eskel moved closer.

He couldn’t do this, he told himself. Jaskier was injured, was in pain, and could barely walk. There was no way he was up for anything but a massage and sleep. But he talked with him without stinking of fear, flirted with him even. And, given the growing bulge in the fold of the blanket over his crotch, he clearly desired more than just a massage.

Eskel was torn. He had not had anyone honestly want him for himself in decades, but he couldn’t take advantage of his brother’s injured friend. He was better than that, no matter what people spat about him as he passed through towns. 

“Jaskier,” Eskel said, his voice rough as he shifted, still crouched, his hands still kneading lightly as the other man’s inner thigh.

“Yes,” Jaskier asked, nearly panting now.

“We can’t-” Eskel broke himself off, not sure of what to say. Nearly a century of studying poetry, and all the fine words of the world had left him. “You’re injured.”

Jaskier snorted at that.

“My leg is injured, the rest of me is quite well, I assure you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Eskel said, letting Jaskier tangle his fingers with his own and begin to trail his hand higher, toward where the blanket creased across his thigh.

“Then be gentle and remember to use your fingers,” Jaskier told him, sitting up fully.

Eskel’s hands were over the bulge now. The pressing, throbbing bulge that he wanted to take into his hands, cupping and stroking, and he wondered what kind of face Jaskier would make when he came. Was he loud? Would it be Eskel’s name on his lips?

Eskel shifted again, uncomfortably hard as he carefully brushed the blanket aside. The cold autumn air certainly wasn’t affecting the other man.

Jaskier leaned forward, hand against his cheek, and brought Eskel forward into a kiss. Soft, tongue dancing against his, no violence, no pressure. Just desire. Sweet, soft, desire. Desire for him. Eskel melted forward, bringing Jaskier forward, one hand solid against his back, the second cupping him.

Jaskier hummed appreciatively, nipping at Eskel’s lips.

“You’re very well clothed,” Jaskier said, panting as he pulled away. “That’s just a disappointment.”

Eskel nodded in agreement, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s and watching as Jaskier reached down and began loosening ties. Eskel reached down to help, his fingers knowing exactly how to pull and twist before his pants were free. 

“Boots,” Jaskier reminded him, hand up Eskel’s shirt and pulling lightly at his chest hair.

Eskel growled in agreement, crushing Jaskier’s lips against his own once again as quickly divested himself of clothes and shoes. The air was cold against his bare skin, Jaskier’s hands trailing warmth in fiery little signs, and Eskel growled, pulling the blanket to the side and letting his hands trail up Jaskier’s sides.

The shirt, too large on Jaskier, was easily pulled up and tossed to the side, and Eskel leaned over him, hands dancing across him, fingers against skin. Scarred by life, not by monsters, nearly pure and unblemished. Eskel had never thought he had even seen a whore so beautiful as Jaskier, panting, mouth parted, beneath him.

Eskel leaned over, pulling a few fingers of salve from the tin, and began to carefully knead at Jaskier’s entrance. The other man gasped, his back arching, his dick quivering against his belly, and Eskel leaned in, peppering kisses against the side of his neck. Jaskier mewled as Eskel inserted a finger, and then two, stretching carefully.

“You don’t sing,” Eskel said, sliding in a third finger, Jaskier’s breath loud and ragged.

Jaskier made a few sounds, his voice fading into a groan as Eskel began using a fourth finger, carefully stretching and working the salve in. He didn’t want to hurt the other man, would never want to hurt someone who came undone for him so freely, who lusted for him.

Who accepted him as he was.

Eskel leaned down, salve slathered across his own dick, his hand on Jaskier’s as he captured his mouth, teeth against teeth as he carefully positioned himself. Jaskier whined, thrusting upward, and Eskel carefully slid in, hands tracing up Jaskier’s side.

Jaskier’s nails raked across his back as he thrust, slowly, careful of the man’s injured leg, peppering kissed down his throat. Jaskier was quiet, his breath harsh as Eskel stroked him in time, tracing a thumb across the head of his cock and leaning back as Jaskier began to squirm.

“Not a doll,” Jaskier panted, sweat glistening across his skin.

“You’re beautiful,” Eskel told him, thrusting hard. “Smell so good.”

He smelt like lust, and pleasure, and all the fond memories of summer he had ever had. Of soft, warm evenings laying in grass and staring up at the stars, watching the night sky grow dark and the little fireflies coming out. Eskel swallowed, losing himself in the scent as he held Jaskier close, feeling himself coming closer.

Jaskier let out a gasp, cumming across their chests, and Eskel lasted a few moments longer, stuttering as he came, burying his head against Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier held him tight, warm against the coming winter, and it was the first time in a long time that Eskel honestly simply felt like a person.

“Is your leg okay,” Eskel asked, rolling to the side carefully, pulling Jaskier tight and draping the blankets around the both of them. They would smell of cum, but he doubted he would ever want to forget this night.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier told him, hands on Eskel’s chest, fingers tangled in his hair.

“You’re amazing,” Eskel told him, leaning in to kiss him, to devour him and always be a part of him.

“You’re exhausting,” Jaskier told him, pulling back to breathe. “I enjoy exhausting. Been too long.”

Eskel nodded, holding him tight and rubbing his back as Jaskier’s breaths finally evened out as he dropped off to sleep. He let himself follow soon after, the sound of Scorpion snuffling in his sleep and the forest alive around him letting him drift off in safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Eskel stares at dice*
> 
> Eskel: is that really there?
> 
> Jaskier: yep, that’s really there!
> 
> Me: congratulations, you rolled a natural 20. You get to fuck the bard.
> 
> *Eskel and Jaskier high five*
> 
> *Jaskier rolls dice*
> 
> Me: and that’s a 7. It’s short, quick, and very vanilla
> 
> Eskel: we can still roll again after this, right?
> 
> Me: you fall asleep afterward tonight. Good luck rolling later
> 
> Jaskier pats Eskel on the shoulder: hey, at least you know you can roll 20s now


	8. Chapter 8

Jaskier frowned as woke, pulling away from the warmth of Eskel and making a face at the familiar feeling of dry cum coating his chest. This would be murder to clean. Why the fuck didn’t they clean up last night?

Eskel snorted, pulling him close and breathing in deeply.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. He had forgotten just how scent obsessed witchers could be. Geralt had always had a thing for certain scented oils, and now Eskel seemed to have a thing for, well, him. Though he had certainly been more enjoyable than a witcher glaring at his old perfume collection. He’d definitely enjoy Eskel’s little scent preferences more often, if they had the chance.

“You spend the last few weeks avoiding waking with the dawn, and you choose today to change habits,” Eskel growled, nipping at Jaskier.

Jaskier laughed at that, kissing the other man on the cheek.

“Today I need to clean before we set out,” Jaskier told him, making a face as his hands trailed across Eskel’s chest. “We both need a bit of a wash.”

“Only if you don’t bitch about the freezing water,” Eskel said with a sigh, rolling onto his back looking up at Jaskier.

Jaskier smiled, leaning in to kiss him again when fire raced up his leg and he fell onto the witcher instead, hissing in pain. His leg beat with the agony of twelve little suns, the limb twitching as he tried to do anything to make the pain stop. Eskel held him, carefully lowering him onto the bedroll, and drew the blankets back to inspect his traitorous limb.

He had been hoping for a slow morning of enjoying Eskel’s company, but now the other man was frowning, and the cold air and pain pulled all plans of seduction from his mind. He hissed as Eskel carefully massaged the muscle.

“You’re not walking today,” Eskel told him, his hands still working carefully.

“And here I thought I would be carrying Scorpion instead,” Jaskier said, biting his lip as agony laced through his body as Eskel carefully brought his leg up, flexing the ankle.

“Should let Scorpion carry you for a few extra days. He needs to lose a little weight, with all the grazing he’s been doing.”

Scorpion, grazing off to the side, looked up and snorted at Eskel before returning to his foraging.

Eskel pulled the tin of salve, nearly frozen in the night, and Jaskier bit back a hiss as Eskel smeared it carefully along his leg. Warm hand began gliding gently over his skin, working carefully and paying close attention to the wounds. His fingers soft, loosening the muscles gently, his hands warming him even as the frigid morning air took his breath away. Clouds of of white drifted from Eskel as he worked carefully, ringing his face in winter weather.

Muscles finally beginning to loosen, and Eskel pulled the blankets back over him, tucking them in carefully with a frown. Jaskier knew he would be riding Scorpion, there was no point in even attempting to argue, his leg had already made its point clear enough. But he knew other things worried at the witcher’s mind.

Not the least of which had to be the early winter setting in around them, haunting their steps and freezing their camps at night. Would they be able to make it to the fabled Kaer Morhen before the snows truly set in? Jaskier had no doubt that Eskel could, but he was the hindrance here.

“You’ll need to wear the blankets when riding Scorpion today,” Eskel finally said, glancing up at the sky.

The morning sun had yet to burn away the lingering gray clouds above, and Jaskier realized that their luck with good weather was about to turn on them. The darkening edges loomed in the distance, and with this chill that could only promise a painful sleet in their future.

“And you may get your wish after all,” Eskel said, turning to him, his face pensive.

“We’ll have cheese again finally,” Jaskier asked hopefully.

He did miss cheese. What food they had from Eskel’s skills was wonderful, he had been through too much in the past few years, the past few decades really, not to be not grateful about having solid food in his belly, but he allowed himself the little wants. Like cheese. He missed cheese.

He would happily avoid towns and hope they had cheese at the keep though, if it kept them safe.

“Yes. And you need some warmer clothes, the winter has already turned in the north,” Eskel told him.

Jaskier nodded. True, what clothes he had now were better than the fine silks and leathers that he had traipsed across the continent in a lifetime before, but he’d rather a few thick woolens, no matter the color, and a sturdy jacket. 

He watched Eskel cover the tin of salve carefully as he tucked it away, and realized that that too must be running low. And he had no idea if Eskel could stop to make more, not that they had the time to waylay themselves just to relieve his pain a little.

They could also pick up some lovely oils that would be much more pleasant than the salve to help keep them warm at nights. A nice, calming scent, something light enough not to bother Eskel’s witcher senses. Yes, he would definitely like to take the risk of stepping into a town for something like that.

Though, really, the clothes would be first. The morning breeze was already cutting at his face, and he couldn’t figure out how Eskel had been able to stand it so long naked while tending to his leg. He didn’t want to think about having to unwrap himself from the little cocoon of fading warmth just to slip into cold clothes once more.

Eskel was tying his gambon when Jaskier finally began shifting out of the blankets, his leg the least of his complaints as the cold gnashed at him, teeth tearing and claws shredding. A former him would have been aghast, complaining wildly about skin damage and creams.

As it was now, Jaskier just wanted heat, and there would be none of that, truly, until they stopped for the night.

“I don’t know how you can stand this,” Jaskier hissed, bobbing his head in thanks as Eskel handed him his clothes before turning to care for Scorpion.

The faster they left the faster they could be safely in the stone walls of a keep, and Jaskier could keep Eskel to himself for days at a time. Having a personal heater in his bed would be a luxury he did not want to pass up.

“Wait until the snow sets in,” Eskel said, giving Scorpion’s straps a final tug before gathering up the blankets.

Jaskier sighed and nodded. He could barely stand long enough to dress himself, there was no way he was going to be able to actually mount a horse on his own. At least he would be warmer, wrapped in blankets, on the horse. He just felt bad for Eskel, though the other man wasn’t shivering he had to be cold.

“I’d rather see it through a window than wade through it, if you please,” Jaskier told him, catching hold of Eskel and pulling him in for a kiss.

He was warm, his heart the slow, dull thud of a witcher, and smelled of everything awful that lingered on the road. Sweat, and mud, and ichor. Jaskier wanted to find an inn and shove him in a bath, and delight in soaps until there was nothing but soft herbs left to stain his skin.

Eskel returned the kiss, arms wrapping the blankets around Jaskier and pulling him tight, trapping him between woolen warmth and solid warmth. Jaskier leaned on him, melting into heat, and the thought of better tomorrows, safer tomorrows, where he didn’t want to wrinkle his nose and make suggestions about hygiene.

Neither of them had any time, or care, for hygiene. 

“When do you think we’ll find the next town,” Jaskier asked, still leaning into warm arms and relishing the heat.

“A few days at least, maybe a week. This animal track is too worn for there to be hunters in the area,” Eskel sighed, pulling the blankets closed as he took a step back, frowning as he examined Jaskier’s makeshift cloak.

The blankets draped over his shoulders and closed in front, and, if Jaskier was very careful about everything, he could protect his hands as well. He would need to add gloves, good gloves, to the list of supplies they needed when they dared to venture forth into civilization next. It may be his tongue that was valuable now, but he’d rather at least still have his fingers when this was all over.

Jaskier nodded, keeping the blankets wrapped tight and trying to keep the last little warmth from Eskel trapped against him. Eskel smiled, his scars twisting his lips into a grim grin, and Jaskier wanted to pull him in close and kiss him into smiles.

With any luck, maybe he could convince him to risk a night in an inn, and he could pull all sorts of gasping smiles from him with a nice jar of oil and a warm bed. Let them enjoy each other after a hot bath, loose and relaxed. It would almost be worth the risk.

“Come on, we may need to camp early tonight if the weather turns,” Eskel said, taking Jaskier carefully into his arms and lifting him onto Scorpion’s back. Scorpion gave him a glance before pawing at the ground.

They were all eager for this journey to be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I’m growing suspicious
> 
> Eskel: of what? 
> 
> Jaskier: everything. It’s too sweet. There are swords coming
> 
> Eskel: you certainly didn’t complain about swords cumming last night
> 
> Jaskier: that was a rather nice sword. I think I need a bit more time practicing getting a handle on it
> 
> *Eskel waggles eyebrows*
> 
> *Me starts chucking swords in the air and waiting for them to fall*


	9. Chapter 9

Jaskier stood shivering, his damp clothes clinging to his skin, one hand against Scorpion as he balanced. Eskel stood back, and then nodded. Jaskier could only snort, and limped over to his lover, standing before him with a glare. He wanted to fall into his warm embrace, anything warm was better that the last three days of never ending sleet and cold, but he was annoyed with having to prove that he could do this.

It was the third time that Eskel had made him prance around like a peacock. Without the feathers and silks, it just wasn’t the same. 

“I can walk,” Jaskier told him, stamping his left leg to show that yes, it could hold his weight well enough, even if he did limp now. He had never expected not to limp again. 

“But you can’t run,” Eskel growled. “And if you get into trouble, you need to run because I can’t go into town after you.”

“I won’t get into trouble. I’m a dirty, limping, decrepit old man, just like the thousands of others streaming north. No one cares as long as I have coin.”

“Thousands aren’t streaming north through this town,” Eskel reminded him.

Jaskier nodded. It was true, their little animal path had finally passed over a slightly larger trail that ran smack into a tiny little community nestled in the forest. The waves of refugees were still absent from these backcountry roads, and Jaskier would stand out as an oddity. He doubted anyone but those from neighboring villages had passed through here in years.

With any luck, that would mean Nilfgaard was absent as well. He could take glares as an outsider, as long as his coin spent and he could buy what he needed. Let them curse at him under their breath, draw away because of his smell and appearance. He had traveled with Geralt for decades, he knew what to expect as an unwanted person.

Though, hopefully, there wouldn’t be stones or shit slung in his direction. Words he could take, but he’d rather avoid blood. His own, because even he knew that, though he had a weapon to draw, he wouldn’t do well with it. Not limping, half frozen, and half starved.

“And, hopefully, neither is Nilfgaard,” Jaskier said.

He shifted his weight, his left leg aching, but holding him solid. He would be sore tonight, but it would be worth it. Eskel and his warm, clever hands would always make it worth it. And, if they were in luck, he could hopefully snag a bit of cheese and fresh bread. It wouldn’t travel well, but for eating around a fire tonight it would be a feast.

If he got very lucky, and stretched coin well enough, they could possibly even have honey rolls as well. Though he doubted there was a thriving bakery in the little settlement they had found. More a collection of solidly built houses, circled and defending all within from the outside world.

“Draw blood if you need to, but you need to get out of the town walls if you-”

“Eskel, if I need to draw my little knife to escape, there won’t be an escape. They’ll already have me,” Jaskier told him. 

Eskel nodded, reaching out and grabbing Jaskier suddenly, pulling him against his chest and burying his face in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier leaned against him, soaking in the warmth through their wet clothes. He let Eskel have his moment, and then carefully pulled away.

“I should be back in an hour, two at the most,” Jaskier reassured him.

Jaskier turned away, and limped down the path, through the dripping canopy of trees, toward the little settlement they had found, hoping that they at least had some warm wool clothes nearing his size for sale. He wouldn’t even be picky over whether they were clean, he just needed something dry and warm before the winter fully fell around them.

He glanced back and the path was already empty, Eskel having taken Scorpion and disappeared back into the forest. It was safer this way, he reminded himself. With a horse he would have looked rich, with a witcher he would have been a target. Cold and alone he was just an unfortunate man on the road desperate for supplies.

* * *

The gate was a solid piece of craftsmanship, balanced expertly on iron hinges, the wall more a defensible fort than a simple border to help protect civilization from the wilderness. Jaskier wondered what would drive them to build such defenses, and was grateful now that he was traveling north with Eskel. Anything that would drive people to building like this must clearly be something to be feared.

Or, maybe, it was the fear that captured them all at the youngest age, and kept many choked in tightened grip. The darkness and the unknown, the whistling howls of the trees at night, the shadows that danced under the light of moon and stars. That which clawed at the mind and not the body, a deadly foe of which there could be no real defense. But solid walls and well lit fires certainly did the work they could.

The main path through town, too small to be a road in such a tiny settlement, had no stalls to be seen. Jaskier had expected this, it was market day that normally blossomed in tiny settlements, they lacked the coin to be worth having anything the rest of the month. But he recognized the crude drawing on a board that marked a tailors shop, and the tiny building that could only be the pub. 

He hoped he could haggle a little cheese from the pub, maybe some bread as well. He could smell baked goods, a faint taste lingering in the damp air, but he couldn’t see a building that was marked as a bakery. Maybe the pub? It would make sense for them to multi task, not everyone would drink every night.

The steel of the knife in his boot itched as he opened the door to the tailor’s shop. Dark, musty, and the stench of wet wool hung in the air. All promising signs that, hopefully, they would at least have something, he hoped. 

“Hello,” Jaskier asked, glancing around. Bolts of fabric, faded and dark, against the wall, several tables strewn with tools of the trade. 

At least he knew they would probably have something. Or, if not, fabric. He could sew a stitch or two, and as long as it reasonably fit and kept him warm, he could survive. 

“We only take coin, no barter,” a man said, coming out from a hidden doorway toward the back.

“I’ve coin,” Jaskier said. “I only need a set of woolen clothes, for the winter.”

The man eyed Jaskier up and down, and Jaskier stood, his feet apart. He nodded to himself, most likely going over his inventory in his head, Jaskier had never met a tailor that didn’t give a good look at a client and know their stock, before he headed toward the shelves.

“You’re going north, like the others,” he asked casually, but Jaskier could hear the questions in his voice.

This far from the main roads, news of any sort must be a rare commodity. And Jaskier certainly wasn’t going to disappoint. A refugee telling what was happening to the south certainly wouldn’t pull attention to him if people came through later asking questions.

“From out near Sodden. I managed to get out before the fires, but Nilfgaard doesn’t seem set on stopping,” Jaskier told him. 

He didn’t want to mention that he had heard that the army slaughtered their way through refugees, looking for someone. He had thought that, just maybe, it had been him when he had first heard that when he had escaped and started limping home. Now Eskel told him that it was Geralt, though their interest only lay in Ciri as far as he could tell.

Nilfgaard was driving itself mad in their search, tearing the world asunder.

“Twenty crowns,” the tailor said, laying a threadbare pair of woolen pants and a shirt that had been patched several times already on the counter before Jaskier.

Jaskier glared at the man. There was abusing a stranger and then there was this! 

“I’ll not pay more than two crowns for this, the pants are in worse shape than the ones I wear now!”

“Ten crowns, and you leave the clothes you wear now,” the tailor growled.

“Five crowns, and I’ll remind you that you insisted on not bartering in the first place,” Jaskier growled, his fingers twitching nervously.

He had been more than passingly good with his hands, a talent that had kept him fed during lean years, but he doubted he would make it through the gates if he tried anything now. And, even if he did, he would be painting an rather clear memory of his time here. One that could be listened to by the wrong ears at the wrong time.

The tailor slammed his hand down on the clothes, and Jaskier swallowed at the rage in his eyes.

Maybe he wasn’t the first refugee to pass through here. And things must be far worse than he thought if people were fleeing even this far off the main roads. How much of the southern continent was now dyed red with the blood of the innocent?

“Seven crowns, final offer,” the man said, his tone firm.

Jaskier nodded, quickly finding seven coins and passing it over to the man, taking the clothes into his arms. He hadn’t thought he would pay more than five, and the small purse was worryingly empty already. There would be no cheese for dinner tonight, nor bread of any sort.

But all Jaskier cared about now was leaving. And suddenly he realized, as the shop door closed behind him, just how new that lovely fortress of walls that surrounded the tiny town was. How sturdy it was. How prepared they were.

Even this far north, they knew the war was coming. Jaskier could only hope that Kaer Morhen was similarly prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: anything in a bright, lovely blue? To bring out the color of my eyes, you see
> 
> *Tailor puts a knife on the counter*
> 
> Jaskier: not well maintained, needs a bit of a sharpening and a polish
> 
> *Tailor continues to glare, hand on knife*
> 
> Jaskier: and, really, though I know the current fashion is a bit conservative, maybe show a bit of chest? 
> 
> *Tailor stabs counter*
> 
> Jaskier: you know, that’s alright, buttoned to the neck is fine. But the blue, you do have something in bright blue, don’t you?
> 
> *Tailor attempts to stab Jaskier*
> 
> *Jaskier runs away*
> 
> Jaskier: I will most definitely not be recommending you!


	10. Chapter 10

“We need to leave, now,” Jaskier said, stumbling through the underbrush to where Eskel was crouched and investigating a plant.

The witcher didn’t look up, but nodded as he delicately felt a leaf. Jaskier watched as he picked several of the leaves, recognizing the plant as one of the ones Geralt always kept his eye out for, but couldn’t remember the name. He knew the flowers, but he had always left Geralt to keep his knowledge of brewing to himself.

He had only ever been interested in the meaning of flowers, he knew that most of what Geralt, and he assumed Eskel, gathered were poisonous to him. He was better at keeping toxic and edible straight. And if Scorpion wasn’t attempting to munch on it, it was most definitely something to give a wide berth.

“What happened,” Eskel said, standing and giving Jaskier a firm look over as he approached.

Jaskier was breathing hard, favoring his right leg, and clutching the bundle of wool to his chest. But he wasn’t bleeding, and there was no one chasing him. He hoped. He had no doubt that Eskel would be able to hear pursuers long before he noticed them, but the town had been inhospitable, not outright violent.

They wanted him gone, they didn’t want to kill him.

“That lovely new wall? It’s not for monsters,” Jaskier told him. “They’re preparing for Nilfgaard. Even this far backcountry.”

Eskel frowned, and Scorpion snorted nervously, swatting his tail.

“You’re sure,” Eskel asked, taking the bundle of cloth.

“I know well enough to read a room. They’re still coming, and no one builds defenses like that because they’re not sure. Nilfgaard is burning the continent, not conquering it.”

Eskel took his face in hand, his thumb gentle against his cheek as he leaned in, trying to be discreet about smelling. Jaskier didn’t know how he could stand his scent, or even his own scent, after going to long without bathing, his clothes a horrid mix of filthy and disgusting. He was half tempted to gag just thinking about such things, wishing they could safely stop somewhere to bathe and have some laundry done.

But that was beyond them now.

“But you’re okay,” Eskel asked, looking into his eyes.

“Never even had to draw my knife. A bad haggle, more than I wanted to spend, and no other supplies. They’re trying to keep everything to themselves, to hold out for what they think is coming.”

“Nilfgaard won’t lay siege to anywhere, they’ll just burn it down,” Eskel snorted. “Wood walls turn to cinder quick enough.”

“I’ll not go back and mention it to them, they seemed rather irate at me reminding them of what was coming in the first place.”

Eskel nodded, motioning for Scorpion, and Jaskier was glad to be able to rest on the horse’s back. His leg was cramping, and he knew he didn’t have it in him to keep pressing on, not today. He’d finally wised up enough to accept his limitations for now, though, really, he really wished for a bath. Hot and steaming, lots of fragrant oils. And a very handsome witcher to help occupy the large tub.

And maybe a little cheese while he was at it.

Eskel began to lead Scorpion into the forest, and it did not escape Jaskier’s notice that they were going parallel to the path, not on it or toward it. It couldn’t be helped. Even the roads weren’t safe any longer. Hopefully Eskel knew his way home under the cover of the forest.

* * *

Three days later, Jaskier stood shivering next to the river, watching curiously as Eskel carefully blocked off the little pool from the raging waters. No matter what the other man said, he would not be setting foot into that, no matter how offensive the smell. 

He’d rather live smelly than die frozen. And probably still half smelly. 

Scorpion gave him a nudge toward the pool, and Jaskier glared back at the horse. Damn traitor! See if he tried to pinch apples for him ever again. Although, if even the horse was offended by his smell, maybe it would be better to freeze to death clean. At least then people wouldn’t assume his corpse was already half rotten.

Eskel stuck his hand in the water, and suddenly there was steam rising from it. Jaskier watched on, intrigued, as Eskel nodded to himself for a moment, and then motioned for Jaskier to step over.

The water was pleasantly warm to the touch, and he was amazed. He knew that witcher signs were convenient, but he had never imagined instant hot baths! He would have Geralt’s head when he saw him next for never telling him he could do this. All the frozen dips he could have avoided! 

“Is it too warm,” Eskel asked hesitantly. “We tend to like things a little hotter than most people can safely use.”

“It’s perfect,” Jaskier said with a grin, beginning to strip off, ignoring the bite of the air in anticipation of the hot bath to come.

How long had it been since he had had a proper hot bath? Before he had been captured, so that would be more than a year at this point he assumed. More than a year without the best the world had to offer, the greatest luxury. How had he truly managed to survive?

Jaskier let out a groan as he slipped into the water, quickly dipping under the surface and scrubbing at his hair. Clean, even just water on his skin, but he finally felt clean! He had forgotten how amazing it felt, to have water kiss against his skin, burning instead of biting. A soft touch, so much more beautiful than anything he had ever known.

The ballads he could write to this one moment.

An arm snaked around his waist, pulling him back to the surface with gentle care, and Jaskier turned, leaning into Eskel’s grip with a grin. Oh his beautiful witcher, his wonderful witcher that made hot baths where there was only frigid water before.

“You,” Jaskier said, leaning in and capturing his lips in a deep kiss, “are amazing and beautiful and perfect.”

Eskel blushed, a faint pink coloring the tips of his ears in the most adorable way, and Jaskier kissed him again, pushing him against the gravel of the bank as he straddled him. Eskel hummed, hands against his back, quickly making his happiness known.

“Turn around, I can wash your back and hair,” Jaskier said, sitting back up.

Eskel nodded dumbly, and Jaskier pulled him into the deeper part of the little pool. While he didn’t have the soaps and oils he had always enjoyed, he had his hands. And, unfortunately, a little bit of sand and gravel. It would take off the worst of what covered them, but would do nothing else.

Eskel leaned back against him in a sigh as Jaskier began to carefully work, cupping and pouring water over Eskel’s dark locks and using his fingers to work gentle against the scalp and hair. He pulled gently at tangles, letting his fingertips do the work, and rubbed soothing circles against his scalp.

Eskel shuddered, groaning as Jaskier’s hands began to move down his neck, working at the tight muscles there, rubbing at the juncture to the shoulders. Jaskier frowned at how tense the muscles were, knotted on top of knots, and realized, really, just how much hell that they had both been through these past few weeks.

“I never knew you could warm water like this,” Jaskier said, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Never knew that I could have a bath this hot again.”

“Just wait until I get you to Kaer Morhen,” Eskel said, leaning back against his chest. “The old keep is built around the hot springs. You’ll never have a cold bath again.”

“I look forward to sharing those with you,” Jaskier said, nipping at Eskel’s ear as his hands trailed gently down his back.

He let his hands work at the muscle at the small of his back, kneading gently the same way that Eskel cared for his leg every night, and then began to dip his thumbs lower, making little circles first at the top of his ass, and then lowering his hands to keep kneading. He watched carefully as Eskel’s breath hitched, but the man didn’t pull away.

Eskel leaned back into his hands, his eyes closed and his mouth parted. Jaskier took that as an invitation, and lowered his thumbs, massaging lightly at his puckered hole. Eskel gasped at that, thrusting forward, and turned toward Jaskier, his eyes blown wide.

“I’m sorry we don’t have any oil,” Jaskier said, nuzzling at his neck. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Eskel said, his breath quick as he leaned back against Jaskier, “Yes.”

Jaskier kissed against his neck, his own erection hard against Eskel’s back, and continued to massage against Eskel’s entrance. Eskel whined, a keening thing, as Jaskier carefully slipped a finger in. His left hand snaked around to Eskel’s front, clasping him and gently thrusting in time against his finger.

Eskel thrust back against him, and Jaskier gentle inserted a second finger, carefully stroking and looking for that little cluster of lightening that would bring Eskel pleasure. Eskel gasped, shuddering in Jaskier’s hands, and he knew he had found it.

He slid a thumb over Eskel’s head, stroking as the witcher continued to thrust, mounted on Jaskier’s fingers and held firmly in his hand, and Jaskier thrust against him, sliding against the small of his back as he leaned in to pepper little kissed along Eskel’s shoulder.

“Jaskier,” Eskel groaned, his thrusting growing harder and more erratic as Jaskier added a third finger, stretching and stroking and thrusting all.

“Eskel,” Jaskier moaned, feeling himself coming close to completion, feeling Eskel’s balls tightening.

A stroke more and Eskel gasped, still thrusting into completion, the water warming around Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier came against his back, leaning over and kissing Eskel lazily, his fingers slipping from his ass. Eskel gathered him in his arms, pulling him to his front, and devoured him.

Jaskier grinned, leaning against his chest and letting the warm water settle back to stillness around them as Eskel leaned against the bank, still holding Jaskier tight.

“The water’s getting cold,” Jaskier told him with a yawn, nibbling against his neck, unwilling to leave the water quite yet.

Eskel lowered his hand into the water, and a moment later it was steaming again, and Jaskier sighed happily. 

“We have to leave eventually, you know,” Eskel chuckled, nuzzling into Jaskier’s dripping locks.

“Not yet,” Jaskier told him.

Not yet. The world could wait for them for a little while as they lay here in luxury, satisfied and enjoying the warmth they could offer each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eskel: what do you mean we have to roll to take a bath? That’s weird.
> 
> Jaskier: just do it, drowners are probably going to burst forth from the water or something.
> 
> Eskel: fine, I roll an 18
> 
> Jaskier: I roll a 19
> 
> Me: congratulations, you both successfully bathe!
> 
> Eskel: yeah, that’s not really a skill
> 
> Me: you both successfully have a bath scene
> 
> Eskel: still don’t get it
> 
> *common sense hits Jaskier upside the head with a fish*
> 
> Jaskier: I do!
> 
> Me: it’s a bath scene in the witcherverse
> 
> Eskel: still don’t get it
> 
> *Jaskier slaps Eskel upside the back of the head*
> 
> Eskel: oh… OH! Yes!
> 
> *Eskel and Jaskier high five*
> 
> Me: and you’re considered clean


	11. Chapter 11

Eskel walked ahead, his ears twitching as he scanned the trees, something driving him to distraction, but he was unable to find it. What few birds there were were still clearly heard, and there was nothing but the wind and Jaskier’s humming to hear, but his mind kept telling him there was something more, that he was missing something.

And that frightened him, because, though his medallion hung silently around his neck, missing something meant magic. And while he could fight many things, he tried to avoid walking into magic fights head on. His flames could only do so much, and Jaskier could only flee so far before they would likely capture him, no matter how fleet of foot Scorpion could be.

He glanced back, and Jaskier was still limping along next to Scorpion, humming to himself, and the horse was eyeing the shrubbery along the way, clearly non plussed at the lack of grazing that the last was providing. He may have to retire the poor horse after another season or two, he was beginning to become more lazy than helpful, no matter how bright, and would clearly like to spend the last of his days in a summer field with plenty to eat, rather than dancing through danger and kicking at monsters.

Jaskier stumbled over a root, and Eskel paused as he regained his footing.

“I’m alright,” Jaskier called out, and Eskel chuckled at his tone before continuing forward.

They could slip between the mountain ranges easily enough, but it was crossing the Pontar that worried him now. It was not a river to be taken lightly, even at the most shallow of crossings, and there was no way to get around being remembered. Perhaps Jaskier and Scorpion alone could be thought of as just unusual and no comment made, but witchers stood out.

He merely hoped no one from Nilfgaard was as far north as Kaedwen. If that were true, they were all true and properly fucked, because it was just a few snow mountain passes that would prevent them from riding to the gates of Kaer Morhen.

That, and the Killer, Kaer Morhen protected herself, when she could. But she had been breached before, and it wasn’t unlikely she could be breached again, not barely standing as she was now, more ruin than building. Hopefully, though her last battle had not yet been summoned, and she would stand for many more years to come.

Branches snapped, and Eskel whirled, his sword drawn as he focused on the noise. The underbrush quivered and a fox darted across the bare animal path before them, glaring before disappearing once again into the forest. He could feel Jaskier behind him, tense, and turned to see the man had drawn his knife as well, glancing around nervously. 

Jaskier limped forward, his left leg strong but not bending properly, continuing to eye the forest.

“You feel it as well, then,” Jaskier asked in a raised whisper.

“If they’re following us, they already know where we are, no need to whisper,” Eskel said, sheathing his sword. “How long have you noticed?”

“Since we broke camp this morning,” Jaskier said, sheathing his own knife carefully. “Who do you think it is?”

“Not Nilfgaard, unless it’s just a single person. The could have easily taken us if it was a small squad, or just a mage and a few soldiers. Most likely someone local, making sure we don’t stumble on something we aren’t supposed to, or that we’re leaving the area.”

Eskel glanced around, his bet was on the latter. Whoever it was was incredibly talented and knew these woods well. They would not be stopping to camp tonight until they had shaken their little ghost. He didn’t want to pause to think what angry locals might do if pressed to such desperate fear of strangers in the night when they had the chance. Hopefully they left the area by nightfall, because he didn’t want to stumble into the Pontar in the dark.

“We should keep going,” Jaskier said, straightening his leg painfully and continuing to walk forward.

Eskel caught him by the shoulder and shook his head when Jaskier looked back. They had talked about this, but Jaskier looked spooked enough that he would honestly listen to him now. There was nothing like the fear of the unknown to pound some common sense into a person at times.

“You’ve been on your feet half a day now, time to ride Scorpion,” he reminded the other man.

Jaskier made a face, but nodded. Even he understood that, should they need to stand and fight, he at least needed Jaskier healthy enough not to be a risk. Or, at least, healthy enough to be able to ride Scorpion to safety. Even if he couldn’t make it out after them, Scorpion was a smart enough horse, he would know how to get back to Kaer Morhen.

“How far are we from the Pontar,” Jaskier asked, still looking around.

“Another day, maybe two,” Eskel said. He couldn’t smell the river, but the mountains were beginning to fade a little on their left, so that could only mean the valley was coming soon.

“It’s probably their land until the river, we shouldn’t stop,” Jaskier said.

“We can’t ride at night,” Eskel explained, shaking his head. He could, perhaps, lead Scorpion in the dark, but it would be dangerous, and Scorpion could easily break a leg.

“We may not have a choice.”

More branches broke in the forest around them, the careful sounds of someone doing it intentionally. Their watchers didn’t like them pausing, and were trying to hurry them on their way. So not Nilfgaard then, Nilfgaard would have descended upon them in a moment like this.

Angry, or very cautious, locals to some homestead they had not caught sight of. How many other refugees had they ushered out of their land like this, running them through the forest in fear, not pausing to see if they were hurt, or needed helped. Or no longer cared.

At some point survival meant turning everyone away.

“We’re heading north, we have no intention on this land,” Eskel said, calling out in a clear voice.

An arrow struck the tree nearest to his head, and Jaskier’s eyes went wide. Well, at least now he had confirmed they were armed, even if they were not the most talkative. And their aim was amazing, they were clearly quite skilled.

“I don’t think they want to stop and talk,” Jaskier said, reaching for his dagger once more.

“Get on Scorpion, we’re not stopping until after we get across the Pontar,” Eskel told him, eyes searching the forest where the arrow had come from.

Jaskier nodded, hurrying back to the horse and mounting quickly. Eskel, still unable to see the ones that were stalking them, decided that he would rather give them a run than wait and see if they decided to attack at night. He could protect himself, but he didn’t want to burn the forest down in the process. It would certainly signal to several neighboring kingdoms to investigate should it come to that, and he was trying to avoid being discovered by any of them.

He whistled sharply at Scorpion, and then took off in a run, Scorpion following swiftly as Jaskier yelped at the sudden increase in speed. The run would do Scorpion good after he had spent the last few weeks grazing his way north instead of riding.

Branches snapped and birds were sent flying as their pursuers followed. Surrounded on all sides then, more than just two or three. Maybe five or six, he couldn’t concentrate now to try and count, but they were determined to keep pace, and at least a few of them were fast.

As the hour slipped away, some of them fell back, probably breathless. He was impressed, it was not many that could keep pace with a witcher. Perhaps they were elven? Or, at least, of elven stock. They had to be, there was no way they were fully human. It would explain the stalking, and running them from their land though.

The Great Cleansing had done so much damage that those that had survived had every right to fear death from each passing stranger. He wanted to stop and declare that they were not enemies, but if he were them, and the lives of his family were on the line, he would not believe him for a moment. Eskel could only be glad they were peacefully running them off their land instead of slaughtering them in the night.

He slowed, his ribs aching as he breathed heavily, but hopefully that sped their way toward the Pontar. The faster they got there, the faster they left, and the faster they were merely in the nightmare that was the many forest of the continent. He would take a griffin over scared elves in the forest any day of the week.

Eskel began to turn to the side as he heard the whistling of the arrow, and grunted as it dug through his gambon into his side. He came to a stop, sword drawn, his breath a panting, whistling gasp as he felt the blood soaking into his shirt.

The arrow hadn’t gone fully through, and fuck was it sharp, he could feel it tearing at his muscles as his body screamed to try to repair the damage. Or maybe that was Jaskier screaming, launching himself down from Scorpion’s back and running toward him. 

Dammit. Had they fired because he’d slowed? Had they honestly expected him to keep that pace until they crossed the Pontar? That would be madness. But he could hear the echoes of water, just tingling nearly outside of his hearing. Perhaps they had been closer than he had thought.

That had to be it.

“We’re crossing the Pontar,” Eskel shouted, glaring at Jaskier as he tried to investigate the wound.

The damn arrow was going to interfere with his sword sooner rather than later.

“We’d not have stopped if you hadn’t fired your fucking arrow!” Jaskier shouted angrily, reaching out and snapping the shaft and then stepping back, behind Eskel.

At least the man had some common sense. Hopefully the next arrow wouldn’t come for him.

The forest remained silent around them, the trees swaying in the wind, but no more arrows. He breathed out in relief, glad that he wouldn’t have to start setting the forest alight in their escape.

“Get on Scorpion, we’re near enough to run and risk crossing where we are,” Eskel said, his sword still drawn.

Jaskier opened his mouth to argue, but Eskel grabbed him, pulling him close.

“Scorpion can get you out of here if anything happens, I can’t,” Eskel said, kissing him fiercely. “We’re almost there, we can rest on the other side.”

Jaskier nodded, running for Scorpion and mounting quickly again as Eskel began to run. Slower this time, the arrow tearing through his side. This would not be a pleasant scar, and Lambert was going to give him hell for getting shot by a bunch of farmers in the forest, but there was nothing for it. The arrow was there now, and he couldn’t risk taking it out until later. 

Twenty minutes later he was standing at the banks of the swiftly flowing river, watching the waters storm and churn against the few jagged rocks that lifted from the surface. There was no way to cross this safely, not with Scorpion, Jaskier, and all the luck of the world. Jaskier stood beside him, staring at the waters, and Esekl could smell the fear.

He turned, hoping to see if there was any sign of safer crossing upstream, and caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

There, in the darkened cover of the trees, stood a man, strong and tall, his bow drawn and aimed true, and Eskel sighed, defeated. There was nothing for it, there was no other way.

“Thank you, for everything,” Eskel said, grabbing the other man and pulling him tight. “Whatever you do, find the surface and the other side.”

Jaskier shook his head, but Eskel pulled him forward into the river, trying to flow with the water toward the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: once again I am wet and not amused!
> 
> Eskel: they shot me with an arrow
> 
> Jaskier: yes, yes, but look at the state of my clothes! I’m wet, again!
> 
> Eskel: I have a sword, and they shot me with an arrow!
> 
> Jaskier: and I have a lute and she keeps putting swords in me!
> 
> Me: you liked some of them
> 
> Jaskier: real swords and angsty metaphysical swords
> 
> Eskel: I don’t like arrows in me
> 
> *Eskel pouts*
> 
> Jaskier: and I don’t like wet clothes!
> 
> *Scorpion would also like everyone to know that he does not enjoy swimming in rivers*


	12. Chapter 12

Jaskier struggled against the icy prison, thrashing as the current slammed him against the riverbed, flinging him downstream and away from the flashes of red that he hoped were Eskel. His body ached and his lungs screamed, and all he could think was that he didn’t know which way was up, and he didn’t know where Eskel was.

He let out a gasp, water clawing down his throat, as he collided with another rock, the watery hell pulsing in black around him. He knew how to swim, he had been raised in the ocean, but all he could do now was struggle frantically. How long until he passed out? How long until he froze?

Would his sisters find his body when it was finally washed out to sea?

He kept his eyes open, trying to see if he could figure out at least which direction to attempt to swim toward as the world spun around him, and remember that little piece of of advice his mother had given him when he was young. Bubbles always float _up_. His body could swim as it would, but nothing could change that.

A pity he had no bubbles left to breathe, he thought, his shoulder colliding with another rock.

He went limp, bouncing and tumbling, until he was hurled to the surface by the current, and he watched the sky tumble above him. The forest was a blur against the furious river, but at least he could see the sky again.

He tried to direct his next impact, curling up and thrusting his legs out to send him toward the middle of the river. Less rocks there, though the current was as swift, and he’d be able to at least catch his breath. 

As he managed to remain on the surface in the middle, flying with the current toward the other side, he tried to find where Eskel could be. The bright red of his gambon should have been a signal against the dark river and forest, but he could see nothing. They had been ripped from each other nearly instantly, and he was at a loss. 

Sweet Melitele, don’t make him have to find his way to Kaer Morhen and bring news to Geralt that his brother, one of his last brothers, was dead. If it hadn’t been for him Eskel wouldn’t have been in that forest, could have easily fought against their attackers without thought and survived.

Jaskier pulled himself onto the far shore, arms shaking, legs numb, and vomited into the shallows. His stomach ached as he heaved, but purging the river from his body at least helped. But he was trapped here, between freezing in the forest and drowning in the river, and he didn’t know which death he wished for most.

“Fuck,” Jaskier hissed, dragging himself onto the shore, the river still clawing at his feet, and curled up in the mud, exhausted.

He needed to make a fire, needed to find shelter, needed to, well, he had water. At least that was covered, though he couldn’t stand the sight of the river without his body aching. He had drunk enough today to last him a lifetime.

Eskel had to have survived, he reassured himself. There was no way a river, not even the mighty Pontar, would have bested him. He was probably farther upstream. Eskel was stronger and heavier, the river would have had a more difficult time tossing him around like a fallen leaf as it had done to himself.

He had seen red flashing in the river, he reassured himself, farther out in the river. Eskel had started swimming to the other side before he had. Eskel would be searching for him. Moving would keep him warm until they could make camp for the night.

Jaskier chuckled to himself as he rose to his feet, they could snuggle together, wrapped in blankets in front of the fire, keeping each other warm. If it wasn’t for his body aching he would honestly be looking forward to it. Now he would just be happy to find Eskel, and hope the man could start a fire. 

The blankets and bedrolls would have gotten too soaked to use, unless witcher magic had a cure for that as well.

If Eskel did, it was his secret. Even Geralt had shivered alongside him on nights when the weather had soaked them and their supplies to the bone. Maybe one of Eskel’s strong ignis could be controlled? He would have to ask. He would even offer his clothes in the attempt. Anything to be warm again.

He limped up shore, the mud clear of any sign of anyone, let alone a witcher and a horse, having come this way. The mountains they had been trailing a hazy sight against the clouds. How far had he been washed? How many days had they lost? 

“Eskel,” Jaskier croaked, summoning up the courage to call out for his witcher. 

Let their attackers be damned, he wasn’t going to die silent. Fuck the world that thought they could silent Jaskier, one of the best bards to ever walk the continent. He’d rather die that hold his tongue in fear.

He’d also rather die fast, rather than freeze to death, limping through the mud at the trailing toes to great mountains. And, as the sky began to darken, he realized that he just might. He had never been proficient at some of the cruder survival skills, he could set a fire with flint and tinder easily enough, but without supplies he knew nothing.

“Eskel,” Jaskier tried to shout again, his voice tearing at his throat and forcing him to stumble back to the rivers edge as his coughing fit brought him to dry heaving into the water.

There was nothing left to bring up but his tears now.

“Eskel,” Jaskier whispered, hoping his witcher could hear him.

Where the fuck are you? Please be up river, please have been a stronger swimmer. Please have survived.

He heard Scorpion snort long before he saw the horse, a black shadow against the encroaching twilight, and he collapsed to his knees in relief. If Scorpion had survived, if he was here, then surely Eskel couldn’t be far behind. He had seen red flashing in the river, he had to be somewhere.

Scorpion nipped at his hair, and Jaskier began to cough as he tried to laugh. 

“My hair’s not food,” Jaskier gasped, resting his hand against Scorpion’s nose.

Scorpion blew at him, nuzzling at his face, before investigating at a nearby piece of shrubbery. But their gear, mostly from Jaskier could see, was intact. He could at least freeze to death in style. He should write a note and put it in a saddlebag. Scorpion, at least, could get to Kaer Morhen with the message, even if his human riders could not.

Jaskier frowned and swatted at Scorpion as the horse nipped at him again. He realized that Scorpion was trying to pull him to his feet, and he staggered up, leaning against the horse as he began to walk back the way Scorpion had come.

Eskel. Scorpion must have found Eskel. Eskel had been shot before they had gone into the river, he must have been injured by the waters. Was he dying? Was the red he had seen his blood, not his his clothes?

“He’s fine,” Jaskier tried to reassure Scorpion, leaning against the horse as they continued to walk up river.

He had to be fine. Witchers were always fine, even when they were assholes throwing their words and their tempers around like little children. But they got back up, and made sarcastic remarks, and were _fine_.

“You’re very warm,” Jaskier said, leaning into Scorpion’s flank.

He had forgotten just how warm horses could be, even soaked and half dragging him through muddy underbrush. Even if he couldn’t start a fire tonight, he’d be able to lean into the horse and hopefully not freeze to death.

“Fuck,” a familiar voice cursed, and Jaskier limped ahead of Scorpion toward it, nearly tripping over Eskel’s sprawled form, half hidden in the bushes.

“You’re alive,” Jaskier croaked, collapsing next to him and kissing him soundly.

Eskel gasped as he shifted, and Jaskier sat back, his breath hitching as he saw his side. The red of Eskel’s gambson was now a stained and muddy brown, his blood soaked into the fabric. 

“Thought the river had taken you,” Eskel said, his hand on Jaskier’s cheek.

“Not strong enough to take me, I’d have out swam it as a child,” Jaskier said, tears blurring his vision as he collapsed into the mud next to Eskel.

They were fucked, but at least they were alive and had each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: you chewed on my hair?
> 
> *Scorpion continues to investigate a particularly appetizing patch of grass*
> 
> Jaskier: do you have any idea how much work and care goes in to my hair!?
> 
> *Scorpion snuffles at something that smells rather like an apple*
> 
> Jaskier: the expensive oils, the cleaning routines!
> 
> *Scorpion is happy to discover that it is, in fact, an apple*
> 
> Jaskier: have you no sympathy, I nearly drowned!
> 
> Eskel: I was shot with an arrow!
> 
> *Scorpion continues to enjoy munching on his apple*


	13. Chapter 13

Jaskier stood there, too cold and tired to shiver, and he knew that was something he should be alarmed by, and glared at Eskel. They had spent the night in each others arms, cold and in pain, too afraid to light a fire in case their pursuers decided that the river had not been harsh enough and had come to finish the job.

Their clothes were soaked, the bed roll had been soaked, the one surviving blanket had been soaked, the few pieces of jerky that had survived had been soaked, and even Scorpion stood there, miserable and cold in the cold light of morning. They were lucky that Eskel had managed to keep his weapons, or at least his swords, when the river had rushed them downstream.

But now they needed to head to the nearest settlement for supplies or they would never make it to Kaer Morhen, and Eskel was being stubborn. Even his witcher healing, incredible as it was, was struggling with the arrow wound the river had ripped open, and the boulders that had done their fair share to bruise his battered body.

Jaskier was nearly completely sure that Eskel had had broken limbs that he had set and let heal before Scorpion had led him to him the day before. He had a limp that was improving, but it was noticeable. And if Jaskier noticed it, others would not be so kind as to ignore it, especially if weapons were involved.

“You’re injured worse than I am,” Jaskier insisted, pressing a hand against Eskel’s side where blossoming red had wilted to brown during the night.

Eskel’s face twitched, his scar pulling slightly, but he did not gasp or pull away. That was good, better than last night where Jaskier had been half afraid his every movement was hurting the other man, but it wasn’t good enough. If he still noticed it, it wasn’t healed.

“You haven’t seen yourself,” Eskel argued, letting his hand trace across Jaskier’s face and down his neck.

Jaskier knew he was a mottled mix of black and purple, his body ached with every step. He would be a horror show in a week, and yellow for another month. But it couldn’t be helped, and at least he wasn’t bleeding or completely broken. He could walk.

“And you need to heal,” Jaskier said. “If they follow after us, you need to be able to swing those damn swords. They’re too heavy for me to safely use, and I can’t trust my footing.”

He had been raised a viscount with all proper lessons, but a witcher’s sword was heavy enough to cleave monsters from the air, and Jaskier knew his limitations. Even on a good day he wouldn’t be able to do much more than look threatening with one, which would be good enough for most people. He lamented that his own damn knife had been lost in his little swim, he felt nearly naked without a blade to protect himself with.

“They won’t be following. I got a look at one of them, the one that shot me,” Eskel said, his hands warm on Jaskier’s hips. “Not full elven, but definitely part. With all that’s going on can you blame them for chasing us from their lands?”

“They shot you,” Jaskier growled. “I can certainly blame them enough for that.”

“Yes, but fear drives everyone to extremes. Trust me when I say that they aren’t following, we’re safe, for now.”

Jaskier pushed his hand harder against Eskel’s side, and the witcher winced visibly this time.

“And trust me when I say you need to rest. We’re all cold and wet and hungry, we’ll go slow. But your side is more important than my leg. You damn near ripped your belly open, and not even a witcher can walk away from that after a cold nights sleep.”

Eskel matched him glare for glare until he finally turned away with a nod, giving in to Jaskier’s demands. And Jaskier was glad, even though he knew the day would bring him nothing but another night of agony. His leg already ached with the thought of stumbling through bushes as they followed the river, hopefully safe behind the tree line, toward the nearest settlement.

There was always a town on a river, especially ones as large as the Pontar. The water was life, and small cities would flourish there. And, with luck, the nearest small city would be large enough to be indifferent to strangers passing through, though Eskel would pose a challenge.

Although, given their current lack of funds, the coin all washed downstream, he may use Eskel’s ability to attract attention to his advantage. He may have been a renowned bard of skill who could sing for his supper with ease a few seasons before, but he had certainly not started out that way.

And nothing drove talented fingers to make use of their skills than hunger. It wouldn’t replenish their supplies, they would certainly arrive at Kaer Morhen with tighter belts and lonely bellies, but it would be enough to get them hopefully partway there. Eskel still had a knife or two, he was sure, and they had a trap line. This close to winter it wouldn’t be much, but they would survive.

Even if they had to chew the bark of the trees to survive.

He watched Eskel approach Scorpion, whispering under his breath and placating the nervous horse. Scorpion had been calm in the night, shifting restlessly in the darkness, and had nearly bit Eskel as dawn broke. Jaskier couldn’t blame him, he was as wet and as miserable as the two of them, but there was nothing they could do for him.

Being loaded down with wet tack and gear could not have been pleasant. Hopefully, if they didn’t see a town tonight, Eskel could dry everything by a roaring fire. Being dry would go a long way to soothing all of them. 

Scorpion finally stilled and Eskel mounted, Jaskier not missing the hissed gasp. He could only imagine how much pain he was in now if it was enough to make mounting a horse difficult. And, in truth, it wasn’t the ones with arrows on the other side of the river that frightened him now. Nilfgaard may not know where, exactly, Kaer Morhen was, they certainly knew it was north.

And Duny would know that Geralt would have spirited away his child surprise to the keep, hidden away from nearly all the continent that hunted them. The army may not be able to reach this far north, but a few trusted men with a mission would be enough to keep an eye on things and wait for an opportunity.

One of them needed to get to the keep to warn Geralt what was hunting him, and Eskel stood the better chance. The best chance if he was well enough to handle weapons and riding Scorpion, to be honest. The witcher may have promised to get him to the keep, but he wouldn’t keep him to his promise if it came to it.

Scorpion nipped at Eskel’s leg angrily, but settled as Eskel took the reins. Jaskier had to snort at the sight, they both still looked waterlogged, and the horse looked the more dangerous of the two no matter the swords on Eskel’s back.

“You settled,” Jaskier asked, stepping to the side as Scorpion stepped closer. He had no desire to discover that a witcher’s horse preferred human flesh to shrubbery.

“We’ll go slow,” Eskel said, eyeing Jaskier worriedly. 

Without the salve to help with pain, Jaskier’s leg was cramping horribly in the cold. They’d probably only really be able to travel for half a day, but he didn’t mind. It would give them a chance to dry themselves, and their gear, safely in the afternoon. Deeper in the woods, away from the river and any arrows that may still sail to warn them to be on their way.

“I was talking to Scorpion, he’s the one I’m worried about,” Jaskier said with a laugh, stepping back as Scorpion nipped at him before Eskel turned him away.

Eskel laughed, riding forward to lead the way into the lingering darkness of the forest, and Jaskier smiled as he followed. After the last hellish day hearing Eskel’s laughter settled something in him, gave him hope that, no matter what was going on now, they would make it to Kaer Morhen just fine. Battered and hungry, but alive and with their wits about them.

And that was the only goal they truly had now. All they could do is keep pressing forward to reach it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I’m quite sure horses don’t actually eat people…
> 
> *Jaskier thinks back to Roach’s behavior*
> 
> Jaskier: I stand corrected, I don’t think witchers ride horses
> 
> Eskel: he’s just in a bad mood
> 
> Jaskier: you’re bleeding
> 
> Eskel: that is a problem, he attacks when he scents blood
> 
> Jaskier: he’s a shark? How the hell are you breeding shark horses in the mountains!?
> 
> Eskel: … I shouldn’t mention my goat either, should I?
> 
> Jaskier: you have shark goats too!?


	14. Chapter 14

Eskel didn’t reach for the comforting grip of his sword as he led Scorpion through the marketplace, stares and glares following his ever move. He was a witcher, old and experience, and, unfortunately, the stench of hatred and fear was nothing new to him. This was his life, hated but necessary.

He kept his eyes forward, wishing he had a hooded cloak to hide his face, but he needed to attract attention. He could hear Jaskier’s heartbeat, a step faster than normal, as he hid himself in the crowds. They needed the food and didn’t have the coin to pay for it, he reminded himself.

It was disgusting, but necessary. He would have preferred taking a contract, but they simply didn’t have time to slow down and spend days hunting whatever may plague the village. Not that there had been anything posted in the first place, he had looked.

This close to winter most creatures hibernated, and anything else that was left prowling the lands had already been dealt with by one of his brothers as they passed through. Geralt would be waiting for them, he knew, but how many others? 

Returning home for winter was always hard, hoping that the lonely Keep hadn’t lost yet another familiar face to the brutalities of the Path. There were so few of them left now, it was only all too easy to imagine the silence of yet another missing voice. 

An old woman hissed a curse and made a sign with her hands, an old superstition to keep evil at bay, and it would have brought a smile to his face if he didn’t know that his scars would turn it into a curling leer. He remembered that so distantly from his childhood. It hadn’t saved him from becoming a witcher, and, in truth, he doubted it had ever saved anyone at all, but it was nostalgic to see such an old tradition continue on through the years.

Jaskier’s heartbeat hitched, but he didn’t hear the yelling of a merchant. Close to being caught, but he had slipped away. They just needed a few things, just a little bit to help get them up the mountains. He wasn’t worried, it wasn’t like Jaskier could carry or spirit away all that much without being caught in the first place.

Scorpion snorted and pushed at his shoulder, and Eskel agreed. He was used to the antagonism, but the vitriol of the crowd was pungent. Hollow faces with threadbare clothes, no children rushing about underfoot. This village was already on hard times, and a full half of them looked like they may not make it through the hard winter to come as it was. Even the merchants seemed gray washed against the darkened buildings.

The trade routes south must have been interrupted. And much like an army, a village thrived on its stomach. If people were hungry now, they would be starving before the solstice. It wouldn’t be safe in these lands, and there was nothing any witcher could do to protect them from themselves.

A small rock bounced off his back, and he tightened his grip on Scorpion’s reins. He couldn’t defend himself against these people, scared and desperate as they were. They were not monsters, they were not enemies, they were, like it or not, the hands that fed him and all witchers alike. 

He could hear Jaskier hiss in the crowd, he had seen the rock too. It was time to leave, and all he could do was hope Jaskier had grabbed what they needed. Or what little could be spared. What they truly needed was better clothes for the other man, a full pack of supplies, and he would feel much safer with his potions replaced. But that wouldn’t be possible until they reached Kaer Morhen.

Another rock flew, and Scorpion snorted. Rocks he could take, but he wouldn’t have these assholes hurting Scorpion. Distraction be damned, the show was over. He eyed the path, it would be faster to just mount and ride, but there were too many people. He started walking faster, people parting before him, and he eyed the village walls in the distance. The marketplace fell away to crowded buildings, shops and inns, and then the gates that led to his freedom.

The shadows shifted to his left, and he saw a guard stepping out. He kept his head down now, hurrying forward, the last thing they needed was him rotting in a jail cell at the displeasure of the city guard, waiting for whatever punishment they deemed fit for existing.

Two more guards joined the first in step, following him but making no move to stop him. Hopefully they just wanted him gone, and were happy to see that he left without taking action. They would have to ride hard to get far from the village when they camped tonight, it wouldn’t be safe in the area. Even the farms that dug in against the forest could be dangerous in these times.

He couldn’t hear or smell Jaskier near him, he must have stayed in the market or was slipping out of the village through another path. In the wary silence that lingered in his passing there was no angry shouting, no calls to catch a thief. Whatever Jaskier had been about, he had not been caught, and all he could hope for now is that he shared in that.

The guards’ footsteps echoed behind him until he was through the gates, their glares lingering on as he mounted Scorpion and began to ride toward the forest. He would meet Jaskier there, the other man would be easy to hear coming, and maybe he would have luck in catching something to add to their dinner.

But even the greenery was stripped of anything edible, and he could find no sign of animals having passed through the area in quite some time. Eskel suddenly realized that half the quiet of the village had been the lack of animals, not even a dog growling or a cat hissing.

There was no way this was just the interruption of southern trade routes. Villages this small could sustain themselves for most necessities, even if the eating was bland for a winter. He stared out from the forest toward the village, and then up at the smokey sky. The summer crops must have failed, there would be famine on top of war.

He stood there watching the village as the sun began to sink, watching the smoke rise above the village. In the cold air the sharp scent of the burning wood was clear, but it lacked the heavy aroma that often came with cooking fires. No meat, no frying vegetables, just the heavy scent of wet smoke. There must be more than a few that would be sipping hot water soup to rest their aching bellies tonight.

Jaskier crept through the forest carefully, and Eskel glanced over. He had a small sack, clearly full, but he frowned out at the village.

“They’ve already eaten most of the animals,” Eskel said quietly. “They may not still be here come spring.”

“It’s worse than that,” Jaskier told him. “Nilfgaard burned their grain stores.”

Eskel swallowed hard. That was impossible, there was no way the Nilfgaardian army had marched all the way to Kaedwen without being stopped. The mountains themselves would stand against them!

“They can’t be this far north.”

“A small scouting party has been. They were searching for witchers, and the town had nothing to tell them. The army can burn a village, but a scouting party can kill them all in a winter.” Jaskier told him. “I didn’t get much, a few vegetables, a bit of bread.”

That would explain the raw hatred he had seen in their eyes. He was a witcher, distrusted by all on sight, but they would have blamed him for their suffering. For the suffering of their children. And they would have blamed him for their deaths that they could see clearly in each others gaunt faces.

“That’s enough,” Eskel told him, wondering how many mouths they had taken food from.

They would also have to be more careful if Nilfgaard stood between them and Kaer Morhen. He would have to hope his brothers had already made it to the Keep, there was no way to warn them that enemies stood between them and safety.

“We need to go, we shouldn’t be near here after dark,” Eskel said, nodding at Scorpion.

“You’re still injured,” Jaskier protested.

“I’m well enough to lead a horse through the forest,” Eskel told him, offering Jaskier a hand up. “And your leg is doing neither of us any good right now.”

Jaskier glared, but mounted the horse, and Eskel led them into the forest, skirting away from any sign of broken daylight that lingered through the edge. Drive people to be desperate enough and even they would attack a witcher for anything of value. Or to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: wait, first there are shark goats and now there are cannibals!?
> 
> Eskel: it happens
> 
> Jaskier: it does not happen, that is not a thing that should happen!
> 
> Eskel: what should happen and what does happen are frequently two very different things
> 
> Jaskier: … oh. Now I just feel bad for stealing food
> 
> Eskel: you’ll feel a lot better not starving to death on the way


	15. Chapter 15

Eskel meditated uneasily next to the small fire, his mind restless as a harsh wind blew through the trees, boughs swaying and a few flakes of snow drifting to the ground. If they pressed on hard they would be at Kaer Morhen within a few days, a week at the most, and he was thankful for it. His belly ached and the nights were becoming deadly.

And the forest still echoed with the lack of animals. He knew to expect that by now, most had started hibernating, or had drifted farther south to enjoy a warmer climate, but it drove his senses to distraction as they traveled, avoiding towns and any paths or roads.

They couldn’t trust the roads anymore, not this close to the Keep. If there were Nilfgaardian scouts roaming the land, causing terror and bringing a slow death to villages, then the roads were too much of a risk. Any witcher were most likely do to torture for information.

He was just glad that the actual location of Kaer Morhen seemed to have been forgotten by nearly all, and the path up to it would soon be too deadly for even a witcher to risk. 

A branch crashed to the ground and he opened his eyes, seeing nothing but the dark forest and cold moonlight. Just the wind he told himself, glancing over at Jaskier to see how he fared. Even wrapped up tight in nearly every piece of cloth they had, the other man was still cold. If the fire died, he may not make it through the night.

Another reason to hurry on their way; he didn’t think Jaskier would be able to survive the elements much longer. Not without supplies they couldn’t risk getting. His body was battered, and he was waning, even if he would deny it. His clothes were beginning to hang limp against his skin, and even in Eskel’s arms he would shiver his way to sleep.

Eskel carefully placed a few more branches on the fire, building it hotter and hoping it was enough for Jaskier, at least, to be well rested come morning. He himself was beginning to stretch thin, but he couldn’t bring himself to sleep. Not until they were safely behind stone walls with others to watch the path for him.

Jaskier didn’t move, but the slight hitch in his breathing evened out, and that would have to be enough. He couldn’t do anything more, their rations wouldn’t last three more days, the first true storm of winter was rolling in, and there would be snow soon enough.

And Niflgaard was hunting for witchers on the way to Kaer Morhen.

Eskel turned his back to the fire once more, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness before he closed them to attempt to meditate once more. Hunger and cold already pulled at him, exhaustion was coming close to sinking him. His sword was already a heavy weight in his hands in ways that it had not been since before he had become walking the Path.

Another branch snapped in the darkness, and he opened his eyes, scanning the trees around them. The wind was harsh, but the difference between a branch snapped underfoot and one falling from a tree was stark. Something had stepped carelessly in the forest, and it had him on alert.

He doubted their luck had changed so much that a nice venison dinner was about to stumble into their small camp, though he would gratefully welcome such a thing.

Silence continued to echo through the woods, and Eskel drew his sword as he stood. 

The light of the flames danced against the trunks of the large trees, one bare where Scorpion had chewed in clean earlier, but still nothing moved as the wind continued to whistle painfully. He hesitated to wake Jaskier, bolting through the darkness was more dangerous than a wall of swords dropping down upon them, and he didn’t want to risk Scorpion breaking a leg.

Something heavy sounded briefly against the frozen dirt, the underbrush disturbed. He cursed silently as he turned to wake Jaskier. While they couldn’t safely flee, he needed the other man prepared, weapon in hand, to stand his ground and defend himself. He couldn’t fight whatever was just out of sight in the trees around them if he was worried about a slumbering lover.

Jaskier groaned as Eskel shook him, sitting up, blankets still wrapped tightly around him, and stared at the dark canopy above them questioningly. Eskel had been kind lately in letting him sleep until the sun began to rise, waking up in cold darkness would be disorientating.

“There’s something in the forest,” Eskel said quietly. 

“People,” Jaskier asked, grabbing for the knife that was next to the bedroll.

Eskel nodded. No animal would lurk and linger as whatever was out there was. Not near a human camp this late in the season, and especially not when people had been so ravenous. A deer careless enough to make sounds would have long since been killed and salted.

Jaskier rose, pulling on his boots, his eyes staring out, trying to search for what even Eskel could not find.

Whoever they were, they were staying upwind. A stone settled in his gut as he realized that, whoever they were, they knew they were hunting a witcher. They had most likely made the sounds on purpose. They were playing with them.

“Put some more wood on the fire, we need the light,” Eskel said, not looking away from the darkness.

He didn’t need the light, only Jaskier did. But fire gave them a weapon they could use against those that attacked. A burned man was a screaming distraction to his comrades and useless in a fight. A burning man terrified all those around them, and Eskel was sure he was going to need to make use of that fear soon.

Sword held defensively before him, Jaskier on the other side of the fire, he waited. Moments passed as the wind pulled at the trees, the snowflakes heavy in the air as a few drifted slowly down, trying in vain to paint the ground white. But still nothing moved. No black wearing figures in the darkness dashing at them, no glint from unsheathed swords.

Eskel was patient, but he could feel Jaskier’s frustration. The man was used to the sudden fights that monsters brought down upon those that challenged them, not the patient ages that humans used before swords clashed. And frustration could lead to distraction. The enemy must be waiting for that, waiting for a string to break before they made their move.

“It could have been a deer,” Jaskier started, turning toward the fire.

The other man distracted him for just that moment and Eskel grunted as the thin whistling exploded in pain against his shoulder. Three more arrows arched through the air, and he was only able to deflect two, twisting to prevent the third from burying itself home in Jaskier’s chest.

Jaskier was yelling now, frantic, screaming threats at the forest, but Eskel turned back toward where the arrows had come from, sword raised as he ignored the pain. His muscles tore in protest, but he couldn’t be bothered with that now, not when their lives were on the line.

And soon it would be difficult for him to fully raise his sword, the range of motion already cut. It would be a fast fight if there was more than two or three of them, and Eskel hoped Jaskier was better with his blade than Geralt complained. He was going to need him to be.

With a quick motion of his hand he sent ignii blazing through the darkness toward where the arrows had come from, lighting up the night and setting the trees ablaze. The sudden brightness hurt his eyes, but it would also send their attackers running.

Scorpion made several frantic sounds, and Eskel hoped the horse wouldn’t bolt. He was well trained, but there was only so much an animal could do when presented with a growing forest fire. Instinct was, wisely, to run. They may be completing the trek to Kaer Morhen on foot if they survived.

Two more arrows came from the side, and Eskel turned and continued to set the night on fire, trees beginning to crack under the extreme temperature shift. Fuck, he had forgotten that evergreens could explode so readily, but hopefully it would cause as many problems for the attacks as it did for them.

“Eskel-” Jaskier shouted, stepping carefully around the fire and toward Eskel’s side, and Eskel watched two men step out of the trees.

Their cloaks were muddy and well traveled, but he recognized the make of their swords in an instant. Nilfgaard. Was it just two? No, neither had a bow, and no one was going to leave a weapon behind so easily, the bowman was still an unseen danger.

Eskel bared his teeth in anger, stepping between Jaskier and the Nilfgaardians. 

Let them taste witcher steel and regret their lives.

“Quite impressive,” one of them said, grinning as firelight danced madly across his face. “I’ve heard so many stories, it’s amazing that some are real.”

“Leave,” Eskel growled.

Another arrow flew through the fire, embedding itself in his thigh, and Eskel snarled, adjusting his stance automatically. Blood was slipping down his leg, and he was gratefully that it hadn’t been set alight by the fire. Burns were always the most painful to fight with.

“I’m afraid that we have things to discuss with your friend,” the Nilfgaardian said, nodding forward.

Five men crashed forth from the trees around them, cloaks thrown back to burn away as they emerged from the fire, and Eskel slammed into the first one charging, burying his sword into the mans gut as he set another on fire with yet another igni.

The burning man screamed, and the scent of Jaskier’s blood was in the air as he fought with yet another. Eskel had to trust him to defend himself as he pulled his sword free and raised it to fend off another attack.

Arrows flew freely now, and he roared as one embedded itself in his wrist. His fingers went limp, his hand numb, and his sword dropped from his grip. He stared groggily at the sword that emerged from his front a moment later.

One had stabbed him through the back, he realized dully. 

Jaskier was screaming now, as Eskel dropped to his knees with a painful crunch, and fell to his side. The sword was gone now, but he could feel the slippery warmth covering his chest and back. He needed to help Jaskier, he told himself, struggling to get up.

But his body was heavy, and all he could do was watch as two men grabbed Jaskier, disarming him quickly and dragging him away. Back into the darkness, beyond the burning forest. There were tears streaming down Jaskier’s face, he realized.

He never thought anyone would cry for him, mourn his death.

“Eskel!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: wait, you could do that this entire time?
> 
> Eskel: what, wield a sword?
> 
> Jaskier: no, the entire burn down the world thing
> 
> Eskel: well yeah, I’m good with signs
> 
> Jaskier: then why the fuck was I cold before!?
> 
> Eskel: … it’s generally rude to burn down forests to keep yourself warm
> 
> Jaskier: not when you’re freezing to death it’s not!
> 
> Eskel: no, pretty sure even then it’s still rude
> 
> Jaskier: I would have stolen marshmallows! There could have been s’mores!


	16. Chapter 16

Jasker had screamed and struggled as the soldiers had dragged him from the burning forest, Eskel’s body slumped across the ground and glowing in the light of the burning forest. His eyes had still been open when they had finally pulled him into the trees, and he told himself that he could still be alive.

He was a witcher. They were built to survive the monsters of the world. A sword was nothing. But tears had streamed down his face as he remembered the still body laying there helplessly, and he could do nothing more than lie to himself. 

Eskel had to be alive, had to be stronger than steel and flames. Without anyone there to help him, and without his potions, surely he could survive.

But now, tied to a horse, his mouth gagged and ropes cutting into his skin, he could do nothing but cry and mourn for the other man. Dawn had come, the smoke a hazy smudge against a frigid sky, disappearing quickly as the hours had passed. Even if Eskel had survived, there was no way for him to reach them. 

If he survived he needed to reach Kaer Morhen and bring the warning to Geralt. That’s all that mattered any more. His life was forfeit, had been for a long time now, and everything after he had dragged himself to Lettenhove had been a beautiful sunset. Not many could have one last adventure with a witcher like they had dreamed.

His fingers twitched, and control was beginning to return to his limbs. Control that had been stolen from him before by a foul potion dumped down his throat as he had screamed and thrashed, resisting even as fire had raced through his body and left him a limp puddle at his captors’ feet. They had laughed as they had tied him too tight to the horse in their escape.

His arm twitched as he tried to pull it, each movement an agony but one he could endure. He clenched his teeth, biting into the filthy gag, and tried to shift himself off the horse. He was bound belly down across its rear, a soldier before him and ignoring him. The fall could kill him, but that wouldn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered was escaping Nilfgaard and whatever need they had of him. 

He shifted forward slightly as he tried to roll off the rear of the horse, a headache beginning to pound through his skull as his head dropped. His face buried itself in the sweaty coat of the horse, the powerful muscles shifting him further downward and blood began to trickle from his wrists as they pulled tight at an awkward angle.

His body was screaming as the horse’s movement jostled him, but he ignored it. Even if he couldn’t escape on foot, he could at least _escape_. Anything would be better than being held in a cell and tortured to death. Especially now that they actually knew who he was.

“Fuck,” the soldier cursed, the horse coming to a sudden stop and Jaskier tried to thrash away as the ropes were loosened.

Instead of falling to the ground strong arms caught him, the others had stopped as well, and held him down as he struggled weakly. His left leg was a burning fire, his right half numb, and his arms only half obeying him, but still he tried. More hands pinned him to the ground as hands unbound his gag.

“I’m impressed, most don’t fight off the potion as fast,” one of the soldier’s said, crouching over him and holding a glass vial in his hands. “But anyone who traveled with a witcher must be impressive. Unfortunately, we need you to sleep a little longer, but don’t worry, you’ll be much more comfortable when you wake.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Jaskier snarled, clamping his mouth shut and trying to turn away.

He should have waited until they set up camp. Waited until dark fell and then dashed out into the night. It would be a long trek back to where they had left Eskel, but he could manage. He could at least return to give the man a proper send off, and take his things to Kaer Morhen for the others to mourn. 

“You don’t need to struggle, it’s just a sleeping potion,” the soldier insisted.

The soldier sighed and shrugged his shoulders before driving his fist into Jaskier’s gut. Jaskier let out a gargling gasp as the wind was knocked from him, and the vial was forced between his lips. He spluttered, trying to thrash away, but firm hands held his head tight as the liquid began to seep down his throat.

A raging fire burned through his body as he thrashed madly, he could feel his bones withering away to blackened ash, and he screamed. The pain was brutal, and watched, horrified, as the men merely held him down and ignored him, the hands that had poured the poison down his throat cushioning his head from the ground.

All his life he had had the words for any situation. Not always the right words, but they had been his words, and he had loved them. Now he found his body twitching as the tempest faded to a beating agony, and he could do nothing but keen helplessly. Even his tongue had betrayed him.

“Is he still alive,” one of the soldier asked, cautiously letting go of his twitching leg.

He tried to kick out, but nothing moved. His eyes rolled toward their leader, tears streaming down his face. He was alive, but it was a thready definition of the word.

“Enough for the mages to deal with,” the leader said, tying the gag carefully back in place. “Another hours ride until the portal location, let’s go before he fights his way to a third dose.”

The other men nodded, and Jaskier was hoisted limply back onto a horse, ropes tightening as his mind began to fade to a painful darkness.

* * *

Jaskier moaned as he woke, his skin tingling unpleasantly, but no longer the burning embers it had been when he had passed out. The potion must be wearing off again, he realized, and he tried to shift quietly, to see if anyone else had noticed.

He frowned, opening his eyes and glancing around, confused. He wasn’t hurled to the side in a camp, but carefully tucked in to a very soft feather bed, wool blankets tucked in around him, and an exceedingly nice pillow stuffed under his head.

With a start, he tried to rise and found that, despite the warm sheets, he was trapped, his arms and legs each carefully tied to a bed post by remarkably strong silk ropes. He tugged weakly on them, and though they dug into his skin, there was no getting loose.

He sighed, his head flopping back miserably onto the pillow, and stared up at the canopy overhead. A beautiful shade of green, embroidered in gold with little leaves and vines. It must have taken someone ages to complete that work, and to be wasted on a bed canopy instead of a lovely doublet was a shame. He wouldn’t wear it, not his color, but he knew a few that could pull it off.

Eskel wouldn’t have been one of them. The bold reds that he preferred really did match him.

Jaskier’s heart ached at the thought of Eskel never wearing red again, of passing bandits stripping his burned corpse. His clothes would be a loss, but his swords would not. Would Geralt one day find himself fighting with those that carried his brother’s sword?

An unseen door swung open, and Jaskier lay there, waiting for his doom to approach the bed.

“You’re awake, that’s good,” a blond man said, staring down from above.

“Usually we get to know each other before we play games in bed,” Jaskier rasped, his tongue thick and his throat aching.

The man snorted, but brought a cup of water to Jaskier’s lips and began to pour it slowly. Jaskier spluttered, fighting against it at first, but his thirst quickly took priority and he drank greedily. The cool liquid was a healing balm, and he relaxed back into the pillow with a sigh when the cup was empty.

“I’m impressed, most people would still be screaming in agony after two doses of that tonic, but you fought off them both quite hurriedly. My men were afraid that you would need a third dose before they brought you to me.

“But, really, I should have expected nothing less of the White Wolf’s bard.”

“Where are we,” Jaskier asked, already completely exhausted. Had simply being awake ever been this hard before?

“Nilfguaard,” the man said with a smile, taking a cloth and beginning to wipe spilled water from Jaskier’s face and neck.

He’d been bathed and dressed in clean clothes, Jaskier suddenly realized, slightly horrified. While the new linens felt deliciously soft against his sensitive skin, he felt violated. What else had they done to him while he had been unconscious? 

“I won’t tell you anything,” Jaskier said wearily.

“You will, though that’s not why we have need of you,” the man said with a smile. “I’m rather disappointed you didn’t have your lute with you, that would have sent the message much faster.”

Ah, the fool was trying to set a trap for Geralt. Geralt was brave and noble, but he wasn’t idiotic enough to come charging in just to rescue him. He had more important things to think about, and more important people to keep safe.

“Would have done better to keep Eskel then,” Jaskier told him.

Kaer Morhen would have come to rescue one of their own. 

“The witcher Geralt sent to fetch you,” the man asked. “Too difficult to keep one chained long enough to haul through a portal. His body will help prove the truth of Nilfguaard’s message though. We all serve the White Flame in whatever way we can.”

Jaskier spat at him, struggling furiously against the ropes preventing him from rising and strangling the other man.

The man laughed, stepping away from the bed and watching as Jaskier felt exhaustion washing over him. He collapsed back, his limbs heavy, but continued to glare. There must have been something in the water. 

“You, too, will understand and play your part soon enough,” the man assured him, adjusting the blankets again as Jaskier’s eyelids became too heavy to hold open.

The fuck he would go along with Nilfgaard. There had to be a way to escape, he had done it before and he could do it again. He just needed to let himself rest first. A little sleep would go a long way toward helping clear his head and rest his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: silk ropes?
> 
> Me: silk ropes
> 
> Jaskier: that’s a little… specific
> 
> Me: they don’t want you doing something like ripping open your wrists to bleed to death
> 
> Jaskier: this is a Nilfguaardian fuck bed, isn’t it?
> 
> Me: … you may or may not be currently captive in a kinky Nilfguaardian fuck bed
> 
> Jaskier: I fucking knew it, I recognized the make of the bed! I know the maker!
> 
> Me: you know the maker of Nilfguaardian fuck beds?
> 
> Jaskier: he’s very enthusiastic about testing his products, as is wife
> 
> Me: you know, I’m not even surprised
> 
> And, on a side note, a slight plug for something amusing. I'm kaiyonohime on tumblr, and on my tumblr I linked my most recent YouTube video. Normally a pretty chill channel, it's literally just me knitting a shawl with lace weight yarn (literally, nearly 21 hours of just me knitting a shawl so far, no talking. I think I'm two hours away from finishing the center of the shawl and starting work on the lace border pattern, it's all very thrilling), but a small earthquake happened during my video! So, if you've ever wanted to see a knitter nearly drop a stitch while knitting during an earthquake, feel free to click and enjoy!
> 
> But yeah, my YT channel is just me knitting. Because I'm a lace knitting nerd. I find it very relaxing, and I hope someone is enjoying the videos. Or, at least, falling asleep peacefully to them. I fall asleep watching them sometimes.


	17. Chapter 17

Smoke choked his lungs and he could taste ash on his lips, cracked and dry. Eskel licked at them, his tongue thick and swollen and offered no relief. He wanted to cough, but the agony of his body told him that he would regret it, that it could only bring more pain.

But his lungs seized and he gave in, red flashing through the darkness with each wretched, gurgling cough.

“Fuck.”

Fuck indeed. He tried to open his eyes, but the brightness of day nearly had him howling as his entire mind seemed to be set on fire in reward. 

“Quit fucking moving,” Lambert growled, arms around him and carefully lifting him against his brother’s chest. “Drink this.”

Eskel obediently swallowed from the vial placed against his lips. He could feel Swallow begin to work its magic nearly immediately, and he was grateful that it was Lambert that was with him. He brewed his potions stronger than most others, and Eskel needed that potency now.

The pain began to dull, a bruising ache instead of the fiery agony he remembered. They must have left him to burn after they took Jaskier. 

Eskel risked opening his eyes once more, and was grateful that the piercing light only produced a dull, throbbing headache this time. He could live with a headache and aching bones and skin that felt like it was about to slough off at any moment.

“Fuck you worried me,” Lambert said, laying Eskel carefully back down on the bed roll. “What the fuck happened!?”

“Nilfgaard attacked,” Eskel rasped, glancing around.

There was no sign of the bodies of the men he had killed. The fire hadn’t burned hot enough to dispose of the corpses, he wouldn’t have survived that, so Lambert must have taken care of them. Dead corpses would only attract creatures, and no one would want that this close to the Keep.

“Yeah, no shit,” Lambert said, pulling another vial out and holding it to Eskel’s lips. “But why the fuck were the attacking you? Swallow this, it should help with the burns.”

Eskel swallowed and made a face at the taste. He didn’t know this potion, and he hoped he never had need of it again. How did his brother manage to find the time to discover new and more vile brews while traveling the Path?

“Was traveling with Jaskier, he had a message for Geralt,” Eskel said, his breath hitching as he could practically feel new skin bubbling up against the peeling tatters of burned flesh.

Lambert just nodded for a few moments, rubbing his hands over Eskel’s arms and nodding to himself. Lambert’s hands stung as the brushed over new flesh, his entire body oddly sensitive now, but at least he could still feel it at all. He could see flakes of black and red coming away before Lambert dusted his hands, letting everything drift to the dark earth.

“Nilfgaard hard up for bards now? Thought they at least knew how to use a fucking whore house.”

“He found out that the Nilfgaardian emperor is Ciri’s father,” Eskel said, his voice beginning to break. 

Lambert let out a low whistle.

“Figured they just wanted her magic, but fuck. Yeah, that would do it.”

“We have to get him back,” Eskel insisted, trying to rise again, his arms giving way and sending him sprawling back down onto the bedroll.

Lambert growled, his hands tracing across Eskel’s chest worriedly. Eskel hissed as he passed over a tender area, where the sword must have gone through, but Lambert seemed satisfied. He couldn’t feel blood bubbling up under his shirt, so the wound must have remained shut.

Jaskier was going to give him hell for letting his guard down long enough to be stabbed and let him get taken. But at least they could enjoy exploring the new scars together.

“We’re not going to do anything when you’re too weak to fucking sit,” Lambert told him. “Damn lucky I saw the smoke and came at all. No potions and a sword through your chest, Vesemir will have you running the Killer all damn winter for that.”

Eskel snorted at that. He could see it too, Vesemir would be livid when he found out how easy he had fallen. He should have been able to defend against a few human attackers, hampered with someone to defend or not. They had been trained better than that.

If he had been better, Jaskier would still be here now. They could have been nearly to Kaer Morhen, the hot springs awaiting their arrival.

“It was a long journey,” Eskel said, trying to keep his eyes open as exhaustion pulled at him.

“Damn near your last,” Lambert told him. “Sleep, you need it.”

“Need to save Jaskier,” Eskel told him, letting his eyes slide close as the darkness swallowed him back down.

They needed to save Jaskier from whatever hell Nilfgaard wanted him for.

* * *

Eskel drifted through pain, his body screaming as he could feel his skin split and bleed and knit itself back together again. Snow and wind fanning the flames as Lambert cursed, his hands tight as he was held upright on the horse, the mountain path trying to shake them down to a sudden death.

He drifted through years of agony, a never ending sonnet to pain, before his mind started to come back to him, bit by bit. The world around him began to solidify, the mattress the packed straw that smelled of cold summer mornings in high mountains.

Eskel wheezed a sigh of relief as the stone walls, bare but clean, were there when he opened his eyes. Buried under a mound of pelts and blankets, and finally home. In pain, his body throbbing in agony, but safe.

A fire was banked on the hearth, and he could hear the wind howling outside, but it was the dark of night, and he was alone in the room. Shifting carefully told him that attempting to move would only bring more pain, so he let himself settle to sleep a little longer. In the morning he would deliver messages, but if Lambert hadn’t delivered his warning yet, it could wait.

The door opened slowly, old joints screaming their protest, and Eskel watched as someone entered. He snorted as Geralt tried to ease the door back closed uselessly, the fool never remembered to oil the damn things, before settling into the chair beside his bed.

“I found him,” Eskel said, his voice a weak rasp.

Geralt startled for a moment before lighting the little oil lamp. His face was drawn, dark smudges under his eyes, and Eskel hoped he hadn’t run himself ragged just sitting next to his bed night after night. He hadn’t been that far gone.

“Jaskier, I found him. Tried to bring him up here, but Nilfgaard,” Eskel said, interrupting the growing silence.

Geralt shifted again, staring at his hands, but nodded. 

“The Nilfgaardian Emperor is Ciri’s father,” Eskel continued, wishing he could sit up and comfort his brother.

The other man looked like he was supporting the weight of Kaer Morhen on his back. He had to know that he wasn’t to blame for what happened, he couldn’t have known that soldiers were practically camping on their doorstep waiting to ambush them as they returned home from the Path.

“Lambert told me,” Geralt finally said, looking up at Eskel. “He didn’t think you would wake again.”

Eskel wished he could laugh at that. Their younger brother was a devious wretch if he spent his time torturing Geralt with tales that he would never wake. He had been injured, and could still feel the aching reminder of the sword through his chest, but a few potions and a few days and he would be hale once more.

“He was having you on,” Eskel said, letting himself sink back into the pillow.

Geralt shook his head, hands tightened as he looked away. Eskel sighed, it had been a hard past few years for all of them, and he understood how difficult it must be for his brother now. It could not have been easy to watch Lambert haul his body up the trail, and then tell them that Jaskier had been lost.

“We have to rescue him,” Eskel said.

It may not be possible this winter, but come spring they could set out and find him. They could save him from whatever Nilfgaard was currently doing to him, and bring him back up here to safety. He would need time to heal and recover, and Kaer Morhen had become the place for others to lick their wounds, no need for him not to be included.

Eskel wrinkled his nose as Geralt pulled something from his pocket. A folded piece of stained cloth, rough wool from the looks of it, but Eskel recognized the smell. The bitter copper tones of blood, rank with fear and pain.

A scent of blood he had smelled before. Jaskier’s blood. 

“Where did you get that,” Eskel demanded.

“Nilfgaard has been sending messages,” Geralt told him, the cloth held carefully in shaking fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: my blood is not a damn perfume!
> 
> Eskel: I would even go so far as to say it’s not even a very good message
> 
> Jaskier: exactly!
> 
> Eskel: I mean, all it really says is that they’re so generically evil they probably have an 80s rock band dedicated to them
> 
> Jaskier: probably a shitty 80s rock band with no proper instrumentals or lyrics
> 
> Geralt: they’re sending pieces of your clothes soaked in torture blood! It’s a very clear message!
> 
> Jaskier: yeah, a message that they’re tacky as all hell


	18. Chapter 18

Jaskier grit his teeth as Cahir wiped yet another scrap of wool cloth through the bleeding wound he had carved into his chest. The wool scraped against the sensitive flesh, each fiber dragging and pulling against skin until it was thick with blood.

Ever polite, ever neat Cahir, who had been so kind as to introduce himself as he had taken a knife and carefully began tracing a rib as Jaskier had screamed. Cahir had never even flinched, merely holding him down as he continued with his work.

“You’ve traveled with witchers for a number of years,” Cahir said, soaking one last rag in blood before taking bandages and a bottle from the table. “Have you ever studied them?”

“Quite thoroughly,” Jaskier said, hissing as the man poured a red liquid across the wound before beginning to bandage it.

“Oh? And what did you discover?”

“Their cocks are bigger than yours,” Jaskier growled, his breath hitching as Cahir pinched the wound, blood soaking through the bandages. “And they certainly know how to use their tongues!”

A hand slapped down solidly across the bandage and Jaskier gasped, closing his eyes as pain burned through his body. It wasn’t the worst he had ever felt, he kept telling himself. He had lived through torture at the hands of Nilfgaard before, and he could do so again.

He didn’t even need to be saved by a witcher. He just needed to be able to drag himself away. His leg hurt, but he could limp.

“Vulgarities will not be tolerated,” Cahir said with a growl.

“I certainly enjoy tolerating them enough,” Jaskier said, sweat beading as his wound throbbed. 

Cahir glowered at him, the grooves in his forehead deep as he glared, and Jaskier just smiled at him. Let him become enraged, lose his temper and make a mistake. It would take work, but Jaskier was sure he could reach a knife if he tried, ropes tying him down be damned.

Anything that Cahir did without thought could only disrupt whatever his sadistic plans were. 

“You certainly do, don’t you, for you to go begging from the bed of one to another,” Cahir commented, gritting his teeth as he pulled out a needle and thread.

Jaskier screamed as the man began to sew up his chest, each stitch pulling. The stinging agony of the needle was unnatural, it had to have been coated in some noxious substance. Not a deadly poison, no one would take care to stitch up a man just to kill them, but the agony burned through his veins none the less.

“Witchers are as deep as a poorly thought well, and just as liable to collapse,” Cahir continued, ignoring Jaskier’s pain. “They care greatly for very few, and when those few are threatened, they become as savage as the beasts that were used to help mutate them.

“And you, my friend, have managed to worm your way into the very heart of the one I seek. What do you think he will do when the first cloth is draped over the shattered stones of their Keep? Will he charge down the mountain without thought to rescue you, or shall he attempt to gather what pitiful forces he has available and bide his time in another sad plan to defy great Nilfgaard?”

Jaskier was panting now, his throat raw, hissing as the last stitch was made. 

“I think,” Jaskier said, “that he will burn it with the rest of the trash.”

Because Geralt, who was a good man no matter how brutish his exterior, was also smart. Smart enough to know a trap when it was set, and most especially smart enough to know to stay away when empires led by the risen dead began dropping bloodied cloths of long forgotten people across his snow domain.

Geralt was not a zealot, no matter what any Nilfgaardian thought of him. He did not plot, he rarely planned, and her certainly did not charge into battle recklessly, sword waving, without thought of the consequences. Jaskier had traveled with him for two decades, had slept by his side, had watched him hold his own against monsters, and had rubbed lotion on his bare ass when he was wounded.

The man was not something to be studied, he was a man. Cold, brutal, and lonely. He talked to his horse because there had been no one else that would reply with kindness in so long that he stopped expecting it. He had offered to sacrifice himself to save Jaskier’s own life after knowing him for barely a few hours.

And he had torn Jaskier’s heart from his chest and gnashed his teeth as it tumbled helplessly down a mountain. And Jaskier could never truly forgive that, because Geralt knew the sting of such words and had said them anyway.

But, despite their past, and despite Nilfgaard’s thoughts, Geralt would not pick up a sword and charge anywhere. Jaskier, in the long run, would never be worth it. Jaskier would be easily sacrificed to save those that stood against Nilfgaard.

“I think you will find that you are quite mistaken,” Cahir said, putting the needle aside and pouring the stinging red liquid across Jaskier’s wound once again. It bled sluggishly now, smearing across his skin and rewetting brighter paths. “Did you know that witchers travel and protect specific regions of the Continent?”

Jaskier remembered all the times Geralt waved off traveling with him to foreign courts. The first few years Jaskier had thought he was set in his ways, carving out the paths he had traveled before, but it had quickly became obvious that he stuck to areas. He avoided the coast, claiming that he wasn’t skilled in water battles. He avoided the south with a few grunts about the heat.

In truth, Jaskier had almost laughed at the thought that Geralt had a region he lorded over and protected, even as the people in those regions snapped rude things to his face, and worse behind his back. What had it been like when more than a tired handful of them had walked the Continent?

“And so quiet,” Cahir continued, dabbing at Jaskier’s wound carefully. “But this last year they all had the same question on their tongues: have you seen the bard Jaskier?”

Jaskier snorted at that. He very much doubted any of them had asked any such thing. 

“You are important to him, important enough that Geralt would let his worry be known. Those deep feelings of a witcher echo rather loudly in them. And he will come for you once he knows you are here, and in danger. They will come down their mountain, swords in hand, in a final charge. And then we shall take back the princess as the White Flame commands.”

Cahir watched Jaskier, waiting for a reaction. Jaskier let the silence unspool around them, watching as the lines around Cahir’s eyes tightened just a touch, his lips thinning. Jaskier wasn’t sure what, exactly, Cahir was expecting, but he had always prized himself on being able to not be what was expected.

He wasn’t going to weep and beg for freedom, or thrash and declare that the witchers would slaughter all of Nilfgaard. Both reactions were banal and below him. Nilfgaard wasn’t going to release him because of a few pretty tears, they certainly never had before. And an army could stand their ground easily against a few men, no matter how well trained and mutated they were.

“You’re a fool.” Jaskier finally said, bored.

Cahir seemed calmly displeased with his reaction, still standing and staring down at him.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but, in time, you too shall come to understand the White Flame.”

Jaskier snorted at that. He had never been attached to any particular god, and he certainly wasn’t about to bow down and worship a mortal one. Especially not one that had once been a nearly defeated hedgehog in armor.

“You never wondered where I was for the last year,” Jaskier asked.

“In hiding, attempting to escape.”

“Not particularly. Unless you consider a Nilfgaardian prison an escape from this mess. Rather better accommodations here though, I must admit,” Jaskier grinned up at Cahir as the other man’s face went white in fury.

“You lie,” Cahir growled, his fists clenched. “Nilgaard hunted you to ground.”

“Stuffed me underground, you mean,” Jaskier corrected. “You were quite brutal in your appreciation of my greatness. I give you credit, if you had not held me for so long you would have found me long before then.”

Cahir growled, his fist slamming into the side table and sending knives scattering to the ground as he swept out of the room. Jaskier laughed, sinking back into the bed and ignoring the itching numbness of his bound limbs.

He was still captured, it would be hard to escape this time, but at least heads would roll over his last imprisonment. And, at least, even bound and bleeding, he could still make a fool of his captors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone: … uh
> 
> Jaskier: your mother was a hamster!
> 
> Everyone: is it wise to taunt your captors?
> 
> Jaskier: and your father smelled of elderberries!
> 
> Everyone: he puts knives in you!
> 
> Jaskier: just a flesh wound, I’ve had worse
> 
> *Jaskier is bbq skewered once more*


	19. Chapter 19

Eskel wrapped the furs tighter around his shoulder as he approached Lambert, the snow thick on the stones and a well tread path of ice marking his brother’s rounds. The wind was fierce, and the small fire fluttering weakly, more for show than to keep anyone warm. Though the pot of what smelled to be one of his nastier drinking concoctions most likely did the job well enough.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Lambert said, not looking away from the horizon. “Vesemir will have my head if you fall off the damn rampart.”

“I’m not going to fall off,” Eskel told him, leaning against the crumbling stone wall next to him carefully, lending his searching gaze to the skies.

The Keep was old, but the wards were strong, and Geralt’s sorceress had gone through and bolstered the fading threads of magic. No one could portal in, no one could portal above. It was a good defense, they could seen anyone approaching for miles around. 

No one sane came up the Killer this time of year. Even witchers dared not slip and slide to their deaths on the trail. 

But that didn’t mean Nilfgaard hadn’t been smarter. They had started to send little birds, Geralt had told him, trained to drop the little bloody cloths that were thick with Jaskier’s blood, sometimes dashing themselves to death against the stone walls as the weather took them. It was a horrific way to send a message, but efficient.

And now the entire Keep stank to the heavens above of fear and pain and blood. It was setting everyone on edge, and Eskel had dragged himself from his bed just to get away from the oppressing stench of Geralt’s anger.

The wind, bitterly cold, was at least fresh and free from any thought of weeping and death.

Lambert, with his crossbow, had escaped the Keep to try to shoot the little messengers down long before they could deliver their messages. If Eskel had the strength to pick up a crossbow, he would have hauled one up with him as they sat watch together.

Another gust of wind had Eskel shivering, the winter cold easily tearing through the pelts he had wrapped himself in. A moment later Lambert’s thick wool cloak was wrapped around his shoulders, his brother still staring at the horizon, a few steps closer to the useless fire.

Eskel did him the favor of not saying anything, merely pulling the cloak shut. It did little to help, but a little was more than enough. If he truly started to freeze he could haul himself back inside and stuff garlic up his nose to survive.

“Yennefer couldn’t spell the birds away,” Eskel asked, his own eyes scanning the southern sky.

“She could, but it would drive all the animals away,” Lambert snorted.

That made sense. Spells were dumb, and something as complicated as keeping away beasts carrying Jaskier’s blood would have been draining to even attempt to cast. And, if it went wrong, they would risk starving in the winter when the meat ran lean and their larders empty. They couldn’t make it to the nearest town for more provisions, and given Nilfgaard’s actions, he doubted they would have anything but human flesh to spare.

Eskel’s feet were numb in the snow, his body shivering, when Lambert put down his crossbow with a growl. A few extra logs on the fire, and soon it was roaring, enough that even the wind couldn’t steal the heat fast enough for it to not be felt.

“You’re fucking going blue,” Lambert cursed, pouring whatever foul substance was in the pot into a mug and thrusting it out to Eskel.

Eskel took it carefully, sipping at it and wincing as it burned. It tasted like pine tar and the ass end of harbor water sludge, all souped together and left to ferment under the piss end of a whorehouse. But it was warm, and it spread that warmth through his limbs with surprising speed. 

“Needs mint,” Eskel coughed, taking a second sip and letting the concoction stoke the embers to a roaring blaze within.

Lambert just grinned, tossing back an entire mug with a few quick swallows and pouring himself a second helping. Eskel still couldn’t figure out how it hadn’t melted through the iron pot and put out the fire.

“Put hair on your chest,” Lambert said with a laugh, offering to full Eskel’s mug.

Eskel waved him off, two sips and he was barely standing. If he grew anymore hair on his chest they’d lose him in a forest, and Kaer Morhen would only continue to be remembered in fairy tales and legends. 

Eskel took a third sip, and then wondered if it would melt through stone if he accidentally spilled it all to the side. He could almost feel his toes burning, and his chest ached with the slow pounding of his heart. Lambert had truly outdone himself with this brew, though he was fairly certain his brother had been trying to create a new bomb.

They could toss it at a kikimore or drowner and watch them wither and scream as they melted away. It would be an interesting new tactic, he could just imagine Jaskier laughing as he stood back and watched.

Eskel pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders at the thought of the other man, out there once again in Nilfgaard’s clutches. The little pieces of cloth smelled of agony that he had not carried with him at the worst of times as they had run north, and Eskel didn’t want to think of what they were doing to him this time. Had they begun hammering more iron into his body, laughing as he writhed and screamed?

“You smell like Geralt,” Lambert snapped, turning to glare at him.

“Probably the furs,” Eskel said with a shrug.

Probably every spare fur in the entire keep, and still not enough to keep him warm without help. It was unheard of, he had spent a century not minding the wretched cold, but now heat seemed to just drain away as fast as he could wrap it around himself. 

“Fuck the furs. You stink of guilt.”

Eskel swallowed. 

“You did what you fucking could. You found the bard and tried to haul him back, and you got a sword through a chest and nearly burned alive,” Lambert growled. “You don’t have anything to fucking feel guilty about, you nearly died! If I hadn’t found the smokey remains of your ass and poured potions down your throat you would have.”

“I swore that I would get him to Kaer Morhen, alive,” Eskel snapped back. “I swore to his sister that her brother was safe with me, and instead I stood there like a child and got stabbed!”

Lambert spat in the fire, the flames roaring green for a moment, and downed the rest of his mug.

“You’re half skin and bones, you don’t get like that in a fight. How long since you last ate, since you fucking slept,” Lambert demanded. “None of us can fucking hold out forever like that. Was it five men? Ten? I saw the corpses in the blaze, you didn’t just stand there. 

“So quit sulking and stinking up the place. Or go back inside and make the Keep more unbearable for the rest of us. But you did what you fucking could, and you have nothing to feel guilty about.”

Eskel stared at his brother for a moment, his mind slowly kicking itself. His brother was right, he had done what he could. But it didn’t make him stop thinking he could have done more, tried harder. Done something else to ensure that Jaskier was with him, now, instead of being used to torture them.

“Besides, you’ve got a winter to figure out how to pick up a sword and rectify this shit.”

Eskel snorted. He did have that now, at least. While he was trapped in the frozen wastes of winter, he couldn’t let the time slip through his fingers uselessly. He would be back in fighting condition soon enough, Vesemir would see to that, but planning was something that would take a little more. 

“He didn’t smell like fear, you know,” Eskel said, taking a step closer to the fire, and his brother. “Never once.”

“And his cock tasted of the finest ale in the land, heard it all before,” Lambert snorted, raising the crossbow as he sighted a bird on the horizon. “Just point me at the bastards and I’ll help you rip through a few to get the bardling back.”

The arrow sailed true, and the bird dropped from the sky to the mountain cliffs below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eskel: holy fuck, it burns green? That’s awesome!
> 
> Lambert: I know, and when you piss on it the fire turns purple!
> 
> Eskel: how the fuck did you discover this!?
> 
> Lambert: needed some better bombs
> 
> Vesemir, from deep within Kaer Morhen: why the fuck is the ceiling melting again!?
> 
> Lambert: oops


	20. Chapter 20

Jaskier stretched his arms carefully, trying to work some feeling into his hands as they began to go numb. The last soldier that had retied him had been harsher than appreciated, and now Jaskier was beginning to worry about his fingers. They were still there, if he craned his neck painfully he could see them, but he worried.

He ignored the pain that rippled up his chest as skin stretched, a particularly deep slice tearing and blood beginning to seep out once more. Cahir had been particularly irate when he had made that cut, the man was usually much more careful when he was playing with his knives.

He wiggled his hand, testing the ropes, but collapsed back, exhausted, when they did nothing but pull tighter. His hands were carefully bound, and no amount of pulling or stretching over the last few days had shown any sign of him being able to escape that way.

The soldiers were even kind enough to go through the trouble of retying him with new ropes every time, so any attempt to snag or fray a binding was useless.

Cahir was certainly more thorough than his last captors. And more intent on getting answers. He almost preferred the iron spikes and months of darkness, hidden away and near forgotten. At least then he had never been a threat to anyone, though it was not as if he was to anyone now.

They already knew where Ciri was, hidden up the side of the mountain and guarded by the last few left of the Wolf School. Beyond that his knowledge was useless, unless they sought to unravel the mystic arts of musical theory. 

The door opened once more, and Jaskier groaned when he saw the four nameless soldiers in black. Two soldiers meant he would be taken to relieve himself, bathed, and fed. Four meant he would be stripped and bled before he was bathed and fed. Cahir was quite set on keeping the bed clean, and preferred to do his carving on a proper table.

“It’s about time you showed up,” Jaskier said as he was freed. “I do hope you remembered to use rose petals and lavender oil in the bath water this time. Or perhaps a nice orange oil, winter really is the season for it, my skin does dry so easily in the cold.”

The guards ignored him, pulling him to his feet and shoving him at the door. Jaskier winced, his feet numb, and limped and stumbled forward before collapsing. Blood was beginning to rush back, and the fiery agony was nearly too much, his vision spotting black after being tied down for so long. 

“Stand,” a guard grunted, the group glaring down at him, and Jaskier stumbled to his feet.

The cold stones did nothing to help, but he limped forward, each step a tottering masterpiece as he refused to think of allowing them to carry him. He had been foolish enough to allow them to do that once, and only once, his body a battered mass of bruises after becoming intimately familiar with every wall and doorway on the way to Cahir’s little play room.

Down the spiral staircase, the windows mere slatted cuts in the stone that he could not squeeze his head through, circling down into the underground levels. He found it amusing that all of Nilfgaard, no matter how separated, still thought the same: underground is where torture was performed. As if they were attempting to hide their bloodshed from their worshiped pseudo god. 

Duny had not seemed a man who was disturbed by blood when Jaskier had known him, and the Nilfgaardian empire had certainly spilled a lot of it over these last few years. But torture of a single person was a much more intimate affair, and perhaps that is what was so offensive about it.

True intimacy was often feared by those who never could obtain it for themselves. And what could be more true than cutting another open and watching as their life rested at the tip of their knife?

The ancient oak door at the bottom of the stairs marked the entrance to his new hell. Iron fastenings, carefully oiled, made no sound as they were opened, and Jaskier shivered as he was brought inside.

Brightly lit with oil lamps, the room was stained brown, the stones marked with the screams of others from long before Jaskier’s time in captivity. Had the others been mere practice for Cahir, for when he had a prisoner he truly needed to show his art to?

It was Nilfgaard, they most likely kept all the neighboring lords in line by sending them little pieces of still living loved ones as a reminder of what would happen to the rest of their families if they stepped out of line. Or, perhaps, Cahir merely hated people and kept his disturbing level of calm in check only by wreaking havoc upon the innocent in these rooms.

“Were you aware of just how skilled witchers are with crossbows,” Cahir asked, turning away from studying the same threadbare tapestry that hung along a wall.

A white flame, poorly woven, the colors bleached by a sun that had not blessed Jaskier’s skin with warmth in days now. Another lifetime without the weather, Jaskier realized. He missed the kiss of the wind, even if it had brought a freezing chill the last time he had truly felt it.

“One would assume that you remembered that witchers are trained to hunt monsters,” Jaskier said, grimacing as he was bound to the blood stained table with iron shackles. “Even those that hide in the guise of man.”

Cahir nodded at the men, and they all left as quietly as they had come. Cahir did enjoy playing with his toys alone. It didn’t matter to Jaskier, they would see the results when they hauled him away soon enough.

Hopefully soon. The longer he remained in Cahir’s care the more he bled, and the walk from his room had left him lightheaded as it was. He wasn’t a witcher, he couldn’t bleed infinitely and be fine the next day.

“They seek to stop your lovely messages from arriving, ridding the sky of all that would bring word of your capture to them,” Cahir continued, refusing to acknowledge Jaskier’s remarks. “And so it stands that, perhaps, they have chosen to ignore such polite writings.”

“Geralt always was rather dense,” Jaskier said. “I don’t think he would know how to pen a letter in return. That really doesn’t seem to be a part of the witcher lifestyle.”

But Eskel, sweet Eskel, had been fond of books. So fond of books that he had returned to visit his sister time and time again just to discuss them with her. He would have taking note of the written word and fought as valiantly on paper as he had with a sword.

He glared at Cahir, the memory of Eskel’s shocked face, eyes wide, as the sword blossomed from his chest resting heavy in his mind. Eskel had been better than that, but he had turned toward him in concern and it had cost him his life. 

Cahir ignored him, as he always did, busying himself with tools on the table just out of sight. A collection of knives, Jaskier was sure. It was always knives that the man used to cut him, rough wool to soak up his blood. They must still be in Kaedwen if birds could survive the flight to Kaer Morhen. 

But, then again, what did he know of birds? They often traveled the length of the Continent with the seasons, and perhaps they were magical birds, bred for such bloody missions. Or they could be portaling them just near enough for them to survive. He couldn’t know, he was just grateful that one of the witchers in the Keep was shooting them down, bringing an irate tension to Cahir’s otherwise calm facade.

A stick in the craw of his enemy was worth the pain it would bring.

“But then I thought, there are so many other ways to tell them of agony that they are not here to witness. That, without them, perhaps you shall soon perish,” Cahir smiled, turning back toward Jaskier.

Jaskier swallowed. While he had endured blades carving him like a roast ham, the sight of needles and pliers in his hands caused his hair to rise, and he tried to squirm away from the blond man. But it was useless, the manacles held him tight, and there was nowhere to run should he escape.

He was trapped in a hell of Nilfgaard’s making.

“So, shall we remind them that they should quit their wintery abode with haste, lest they find you withered and forgotten come the spring sun,” Cahir asked. “And do, please, scream. I am told that it helps bring the point across.”

Jaskier stretched his head and watched in horror as Cahir took the first needle and drove it under the index finger of his right hand. He screamed as a second and third were added, Cahir pressing weight gently on the needles until his nail began to crack, and then picked up the pliers.

He turned away then, his eyes clenched shut, still howling, the muscles on his arm taught, as he felt Cahir grasp his tail and tear it away. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, the warmth of it soaking against his skin, and Jaskier panted.

His entire hand screamed in agony, and then the rough spun wool was pressed hard against the wound, stoking the fires of his pain as Cahir doused and wrapped it carefully.

“Now then, that shall send an elegant message that even your witcher cannot ignore,” Cahir said, his hand stroking down the side of Jaskier’s cheek, smearing blood across his skin.

Jaskier growled and bit at his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier glares at Cahir*
> 
> *Cahir doesn’t care*
> 
> *Cahir continues to torture Jaskier*
> 
> Cahir: and what do you think this message will say?
> 
> Jaskier: I’m going to fucking throw you off the top of Nakatomi Plaza
> 
> Cahir: … wtf is a Nakatomi Plaza?


	21. Chapter 21

Eskel woke to the rotting scent of fury and blood choking him, leaving him heaving over the side of his bed and gasping for breath. The sour smell of sick lingered thickly in his nose, and the only thing that stopped him from heaving again; anything was better than the fury that clung thickly in the air.

A few moments later and he heard a muffled thump, something solid being destroyed against a wall, and he understood what had happened. Lambert must have relinquished his post to rest, and another bird had delivered a message.

Jaskier was still alive, hopefully still alive, and they had another bloody piece of wool to speak to his suffering. They must have mages working on him to keep him alive after losing all this blood, and Eskel felt the pit in his stomach hollow itself.

Blood potions were a nasty, vile business. Necessary at times, yes, but they were never without side effects. And taking them for so long would be worse than death. Though he didn’t doubt that how they were getting his bard’s blood was worse by now. 

At least none of it smelled of festering infection.

He stumbled from bed, feet bare and cold against the floor, and dragged himself toward the angry shouting, Vesemir’s voice ringing through the hallway against the fury of Geralt’s growls. It must be something truly heinous to sap his brother of his voice and leave him a growling mess, Lambert was nowhere to be heard, for now, though he had no doubt his younger brother would be soon behind.

It was impossible to ignore the fight, the sounds and stench leaking through every stone.

“-the ass end of winter,” Vesemir shouted, his words echoing clearly as Eskel stumbled into the entrance hall, “so put your fucking sword back before I tie you to the damn wall!”

Geralt, half dressed, eyes wide and hair wild, shoved against their old teacher, sword in hand. It didn’t escape Eskel’s notice that his brother had grabbed his silver sword in his fury rather than steel. While it said much about what he thought of Nilfgaard, it would be nigh on useless against the Nilfgaardian armies.

Especially if the man wielding it broke upon their blades.

Fuck. Eskel let the blanket he had wrapped around himself drop to the ground as he tried to tackle Geralt from behind. He had no doubt that Vesemir could hold him, the old man could still hold his own against the best of them, but it would be easier if Geralt realized more than one person thought he was a moron. 

And the best way to knock sense into his brothers was literally, he had learned through hard experience.

Geralt’s feet slipped as Eskel collided with him, but he held firm, turning to glare before dropping his sword. He grabbed him, looking him over carefully, and Eskel shook himself out of his grip. He wasn’t bleeding, his wounds were at least healed enough that he wasn’t going to die throwing himself against a wall, but at least it got Geralt to stop.

“And that solves the problem, kiddo,” Lambert said, standing next to a wide eyed Ciri, a damp cloth held to his nose.

Ciri didn’t budge, gripping to the wall, nearly frightened, and Eskel’s heart went out to her. She had had a rough time of it these last few years, and seeing Geralt go half feral must not have been pleasant. Hopefully her training had taken well enough that she wouldn’t be bringing the walls down around them with nightmares.

“What the fuck did they send this time,” Lambert asked, stepping forward but the rag never moving away from his nose.

Eskel could only ask the same thing, even the bloody cloths that Nilfgaard had sent had never smelled this foul, or this potent. He already knew the answer, no matter how much he wanted to deny it. Only a physical piece of a person could carry a stench this long and spread it through the Keep so thoroughly.

They were cutting pieces off of Jaskier.

Geralt turned away, teeth gnashing, but he pointed toward the fireplace.

“Wasn’t a fucking bird this time, was a rat,” Geralt spat, and Eskel shivered.

There was no way to keep all animals from the Keep. Where there was warmth and food there was vermin, and the old stones had long since been worn away enough to let smaller creatures run freely through the Keep, though most tried to stay out from underfoot enough to be tolerated. 

Vesemir had thankfully had Yennefer spell the pantry safe during her visit, and for that they had all been thankful. Mice ate through their stores far more greedily than any of them ever had.

Eskel kept his weight against Geralt, Vesemir still blocking the entrance, leaving Lambert to approach the cloth, nearly unseen against the stones in the darkness. The banked fire did little to help, and Eskel couldn’t help but use ignii, helping light the scene. Geralt growled, but Eskel ignored him.

Casting a sign wasn’t going to deliver him to death, he was at least healed enough to be beyond that. 

“Fucking whoresons,” Lambert cursed, the cloth held carefully in his hand as he brought it over.

“His fucking finger,” Geralt rasped. “They cut off his fucking finger!”

“That’s not a finger,” Eskel shot back as he studied the bloody lump he was shown.

He felt the urge to vomit again rising, his stomach a heaving mess, but it wasn’t Jaskier’s finger. It wasn’t a bloody, severed stump that would have ripped his music from him. It was a nail, painfully torn away from his finger yes, but just the nail none the less.

And it had been removed while he was still alive. A corpse would not bleed enough, the flesh would not cling, as it had done so to this little part of Jaskier. It was horrific and terrifying, but at least he was still alive.

“I don’t want to fucking know why you can know that so fast,” Lambert growled, his voice muffled behind the rag.

Eskel grabbed the rag and threw it at Geralt. Lambert could deal with the rage better than Geralt could at this point, their brother was still half a thought away from tearing out into the frozen night to kill himself trying to save Jaskier.

Vesemir caught the rag and slammed it home against Geralt’s face, Geralt spluttered and tried to pull it away unsuccessfully.

“He’s still alive,” Eskel pointed out. “Too much blood for a corpse.”

“Too much pain for a corpse,” Lambert sneered, leaning away to sneeze. “Fuckers are going to keep him alive and carve him up like a damn dressed ham.”

“Not if we rescue him first,” Geralt insisted, finally stepping away from Vesemir, the rag held against his nose by his own hand.

Vesemir watched him warily, still keeping himself between Geralt and the doors, but he made no move to stop him. Eskel was just glad it hadn’t come to serious blows, his chest still ached, no matter how fast witcher healing helped, and he didn’t want to be laid out in bed again because of his pig headed brother.

“From a stone fortress in the middle of a war camp of highly trained soldiers, a few half mad mages wandering around and taking out their violence on anyone stupid enough to look their way?” Lambert demanded. “How the fuck do you plan to manage that when you’re about to charge headlong down a mountain half dressed and half armed!?”

Geralt paused at that, and Eskel’s eyes narrowed. 

“We’re going to smell a lot more pain and suffering around here before we can get him out of there, so put your fucking dick away before they chop it off and toss it to that fucking bard of yours!” Lambert snapped.

“Not my fucking bard,” Geralt growled back.

“No, it’s his fucking bard,” Lambert said, gesturing at Eskel. “You’re just the dipshit that dropped him off the face of the fucking world and left him to this.”

“I didn’t leave him to-” Geralt snapped, charging forward and bowling Lambert over.

The two collapsed into a pile of gnashing teeth and flying limbs, and Eskel stepped back to give them room as they rolled across the cold stone floor. Vesemir merely glowered as he stared on, making no move to step in and stop the fight.

“They had him in a prison before, they just didn’t know who he was,” Eskel said, confiding in Vesemir. “They tortured him nearly to death that time. He wasn’t in good shape when they ambushed us.”

Vesemir nodded.

“Aiden didn’t come with Lambert,” Vesemir finally said.

That explained a lot, Eskel realized. More than he would like.

“You think Nilfgaard?”

“I think it wasn’t a shepherd in a field,” Vesemir snorted.

It would go a long way to explaining why Lambert knew where they would be holding Jaskier. And why he was so bitingly vicious with Geralt now. They all saw the worst the world had to deal in each other.

Geralt coughed as Lambert finally got a good swing in, blood smearing down Geralt’s face as his nose crunched sideways and Eskel sighed. A broken nose would be better in a day, maybe two, but it was always a misery to live with.

“Stay fucking down before I have to tie you to the damn stones,” Lambert growled, chest heaving as he pinned Geralt.

The ‘I don’t want to lose you too’ lingering thickly in the air, and Eskel turned to leave the two of them to Vesemir. He was exhausted and the cold had sunk deep into his bones. He didn’t want to face any more painful truths tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Geralt stares at rag quizzically*
> 
> Geralt: why is this covered in flour?
> 
> *Everyone stares at Geralt*
> 
> Geralt: and why does it smell like… warm?
> 
> *Everyone continues to stare at Geralt*
> 
> Geralt: I’ve smelled this somewhere before…
> 
> Eskel: you really are an idiot
> 
> Lambert: where the fuck do you think bread comes from around here!?
> 
> Geralt: … magic?
> 
> *Lambert punches Geralt again*


	22. Chapter 22

Jaskier watcher Cahir staring at the worn tapestry, the minutes ticking silently by. He didn’t mind, his hand ached and he was long since bored of being bound constantly. A few minutes here, an hour there wasn’t enough, and even the silk ropes were beginning to chafe against his skin.

He was going to have to pay through the nose for good moisturizers once he finally rid himself of this place. 

“How long did you travel with the White Wolf,” Cahir asked, breaking the silence.

Jaskier didn’t bother to answer and chose to continue studying the ceiling. The stones were old, even the undersides showing their age, but he was beginning to pick out little constellations in the texture. They wavered and changed as the light flickered in the drafts, but it was nearly like watching the night sky again. Though it lacked the beauty that could reach down and rip his breath away on still winter nights.

This ceiling merely had the stony chill of false permanence. 

“Our records show you were at his side for nearly two decades, but you barely have a line of adulthood on your face, even after all you have suffered,” Cahir said, finally turning away to give Jaskier his full attention.

Jaskier snorted at that. Leave it to his jailer to notice his youthful complexion and ask questions, whereas Geralt had never noticed a thing. Short of a limb falling off, he doubted that Geralt would have noticed anything at all, but, then again, to Geralt the time of decades must feel like a short handful of years. Did he have a grasp on how fast the human world passed around him?

Witchers were practically myths these days, it shouldn’t be surprising that they also failed to notice the passing of mortality around them.

“A laugh line or two, but your hair should begin to streak and your skin begin to carve itself with age,” Cahir said, his hand sliding gently down Jaskier’s cheek, his hand warm against his skin.

Jaskier shuddered but didn’t pull away. He wouldn’t give Cahir the pleasure of thinking he was afraid of him, no matter how many times he carved him to pieces. He was stronger than this half mad zealot. He would escape again, and enjoy tearing out his throat and bringing his head to Kaer Morhen to spike on top the battlements as a sign to those that would dare attack: even the humble bards that traveled with witchers were more than a match for them.

“I moisturize,” Jaskier spat, snapping at the hand as it came too near his mouth.

Cahir pulled his hand away with a chuckle, but still stood there, staring down at him, studying him. 

“I very much doubt that all the moisturizers in all the world could keep away the decades from being painted across your skin. It does give merit to a theory I have held. Have you ever noticed how slowly a witcher ages?”

Jaskier continued to glare. 

“Their healing powers are quite amazing, wounds that would cripple a mortal man healing in a matter of days, they can even regrow the little things like fingernails and teeth, whereas us mortals would be left without until the grave takes us,” Cahir smiled, pressing firmly on the open wound that had been Jaskier’s fingernail.

Jaskier grit his teeth, his body tensing and struggling uselessly to get away from the pain. Cahir nodded, taking a cloth and dipping it into a bowl before dabbing it against the wound. Jaskier screamed then, whatever it was burned against his wounded flesh, and he writhed trying to escape it.

“It’s magnificent, taking them apart and then watching their bodies trying to stitch them back together again. Why, if you even so much as remove small bones, such as the tiny ones in their fingers, their bodies attempt to adapt to compensate.”

Jaskier screamed again as Cahir carefully began cutting open his hand, blood spilling against the stone as his torturer widened the wound. Hours seemed to burn away, his tongue raw as he bit it, but still Cahir’s strength outmatched his, holding his right hand still.

With a sickening pop Jaskier’s vision began to go black as everything washed over his mind, and he tried to escape into the darkness. He didn’t want to be here for this, he wanted to wake up piss drunk on the floor of a tavern in Oxenfurt, Valdo Marx leering over him and taunting him for being a failure.

Pain brought him back as Cahir doused the open wound with red liquid, sharp spikes of agony lancing down his arm, his heart fluttering painfully in his chest. His index finger was numb, and that frightened him more than if the man had decided to start plunging daggers into his chest once more.

“You see, witcher biology is so very, very interesting. They were made to survive, to overcome all obstacles but those that are impossible, and continue fighting. And you, with your youthful grace, seem to share a little of that with them.

“Your wounds heal so much faster than any others I have ever seen. The only ones that truly stand out are those marks along your leg. During your time captured in the south, I take it?”

Jaskier nodded, tears streaming down his face as his hand throbbed in time with his heart. A pulse, a beat of pain, another splash of blood dripping down. This agony was never ending.

“You must not have spent time with your new witcher, the fallen wolf witcher, then, if they did not heal fully. Or, perhaps, they were worse than I imagine? If that is the case, I’m surprised you still have your leg if you had to wait so long to borrow a witcher’s healing.”

Cahir’s hand trailed up Jaskier’s left leg, fingers pausing to poke at every starburst beneath the cloth. Jaskier lay there, wondering what hell he was going to be subjected to next. 

“Were you a more pleasing man I would have you more your hands a little higher and take me in hand,” Jaskier gasped out. “It’s been fairly lonely in my chambers. But, then again, I’m afraid the weight of me would break your fingers, and you would have nothing left to play with yourself.”

The slap stung against Jaskier’s cheek, and Jaskier just grinned up at him, watching the anger burning in his eyes. Let him do it, let his temper slip a step too far, and let him plunge a knife into his chest in rage.

He may still be carved up and sent as a warning to Geralt then, but Geralt would be able to smell the death on his rancid flesh, and would never be tempted to come down the mountain. All of Cahir’s beautiful little plans could fly out the window, and all left that he cared about would be safe.

“I do believe I insisted on no vulgarities,” Cahir hissed, and Jaskier watched him pick up the surgical knife again.

Jaskier watched as he picked up the pitcher of red liquid and began pouring it across his chest. It was cold, but it did not sting, and the skin was left marked a yellowing red as it dribbled down his sides. 

“You see, I wonder how it is that a witcher’s latent healing talent was able to wash off on you. Was it simply being in close proximity for so long? You are certainly the only person I can find that has ever lingered near one for more than a few days.

“Or was it being taken to bed? Though if it was the latter, it would have been necessary for the act to be repeated quite frequently, otherwise all the whores in Novingrad would grace the courts for an eternity.”

Jaskier watched as the knife glided along his skin, blood welling up and spilling out through chest hair and down his sides. The scent of iron lingered in the air, heavy and nauseating, and he doubted he would be able to hold down more than a bite or two of food after this. If there was an after this.

“But maybe it’s a bit of both. Repeated lays granting you youth and health, but the instant you fall from favor the well dries up? Is that why you flung yourself so easily at the next witcher you could find, because you worried that your hair would begin to silver and your voice warble without his pleasure stilling your time?”

“Your entire fucking country was not half the man that Eskel was,” Jaskier snapped, heaving at his bonds.

The knife slipped and Jaskier screamed as Cahir frowned.

“You’ve gone and ruined my work. I was going to send a little sentimental gift to your white wolf. I wonder if he could still be able to smell your Eskel’s mouth upon it.”

With a final, tearing slice, a chunk of flesh was ripped free, and Jaskier’s voice broke apart as he howled. Blood spilled freely, and even the thick bandages quickly clotted red again as Cahir applied them.

“You see, while I knew of a witcher’s healing, there was no one nearby that I could toss to the animal to test if it was, in fact, frequent coupling that could pass on such little presents. Not that I had an inkling that such a thing was possible. So sad, really, I would have liked to see if a witcher could help you grow such things back.”

Red and black wavered across Jaskier’s vision as he watched Cahir carefully wrapping the strip of bloody flesh around the bone. Jaskier’s gorge rose and he turned his head as he heaved, thankful that he hadn’t eaten yet that day.

“I have been forced to get more creative with how these little presents are delivered to your witcher, but it gives something of a bit of entertainment to the mages, and drives them. They’re always so thrilled when another little scrap of you is taken into the stones of Kaer Morhen. And we wouldn’t want to bore them, would we?”

Jaskier panted, blood running down his chest, acid bitter on his tongue, and glared at Cahir.

He was going to kill this man if it was the last fucking thing he ever did.

“I’ll have the healers pay close attention to your wounds when you’re bathed today, I wouldn’t want our fun to end so soon. I need you alive just a little longer yet.”

Jaskier gnashed his teeth and howled as Cahir poured more of liquid fire across his chest, and let himself slip into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: … can I reroll that?
> 
> Me: reroll what? There wasn’t a lot for you to roll in the first place
> 
> Jaskier: that part where I told him his hands were too small
> 
> Me: you mean when you pissed him off and he started peeling flesh off your chest?
> 
> Jaskier: yeah. I want to tell him to take a step closer so I can bite his godsdamn cock off the filthy whore!
> 
> Me: … I’m going to save you a lot of trouble and say no, you can’t reroll that


	23. Chapter 23

Jaskier stared at the two guards as he sank into the bath, the warm water stinging against his wounds, but he was relieved to finally be able to wash the clotted blood from his skin. The touch of soap made him hiss, the water tinting a murky brown, but it was worth it.

He could almost laugh at how Cahir was spoiling him, perfume scented baths and herbal soaps were beyond what even he normally enjoyed. The price of the luxuries mind boggling, but he assumed from the scent, the same scent that reminded him of the salve that Eskel had so carefully applied not so long ago, that they were supposed to help healing.

Or, at least, help keep him from dying. Cahir seemed very insistent that he remain alive for the remainder of his torture. The pain must add an extra scent of realism for Geralt when he find the little, bloody offerings. Even still angry at him he can imagine how Geralt will become furious at having scraps of skin flung down upon him from the heavens above.

He just hoped Geralt kept his head. Broken and mauled as he was, he wasn’t worth saving. Not at the risk of Ciri’s life, or whatever stunningly horrific plan Cahir had in mind. The man had already, apparently, tortured one witcher to death, he could quite as easily do it again to another.

The guards eyed him, faces stony, but hands away from their swords. Of course, what did they have to fear? A wet, sud covered naked man was no threat to them. He could jump from the tub and fling his body against them until he broke and they would still stand there, glaring as he bled across the floor. The only threat to them was Cahir’s displeasure, of which they saw the signs of clearly ripped from Jaskier’s flesh.

Jaskier turned his gaze to his carefully bandaged hand, hanging limply over the side of the tub. Cahir had been quite clear that he was not to get it wet, that that wound, unlike the others, would more easily become infected. There was a blossoming rose of pink beneath where his index finger should be.

He would never be able to play the lute again. Not well, at least. He could try, he knew more than a few musicians that would surprise people despite their disabilities. And now he would become one of them. He would have to think up a brilliant story to explain away the missing digit.

Tied down and tortured by a sadistic whoreson didn’t have quite the depth as perhaps lost in a sacrifice to save a beautiful maiden from a cursed spirit. Or while helping the great White Wolf fend off a small army of fiends from a small village. Something tempting, something heroic.

Something that didn’t make him look like a limp, useless rag.

He sank deeper into the water, glancing briefly at the guards, and then pulled his hand in with the rest of him. He grit his teeth as the wet fabric pressed and pulled against the sensitive flesh. The sting of the perfumes burned against the stitched cuts, and he pulled himself lower, only his upper face open to the air as he breathed through his nose.

“Oi, fuckwit,” one of the guards glared down at him, taking a step toward the tub. “Hand out of the water, you know the orders.”

Jaskier blinked but didn’t move, letting the dwindling heat of the water soak into him, reminding him of pleasant times that he doubted he would ever see again. He could nearly hear Geralt now, snapping at him and telling him not to antagonize the men with swords.

Well fuck Geralt. Fuck him and everyone else that landed him here.

The guard took several more steps forward, kicking at the tub and glaring. The water sloshed across his face, stinging at his eyes, but he didn’t move. He just continued to watch; both guards were angry now.

But he could bide his time. His upbringing had taught him patience. Patience in a stuffy suit, patience at a boring dinner, patience as he heard the dreary lyrics of Valdo Marx bellowed across a stage. He knew how to sit, and stare, and return a glare.

The guards were truly angry now. They had been ordered to see him bathed and fed, and unharmed. Cahir had always stressed that quite carefully. His torture was only to be at his hands, and his hands alone. Because it wasn’t truly information that Cahir wanted, he knew where Ciri was and he knew who protected her.

No, he was useful, alive, as a way to taunt those up atop an unreachable mountain peak. And Jaskier, maimed and mangled, was sick of being kept in Nilfgaardian prisons. Bathed and fed or not, torture was still torture.

So Jaskier braced his feet and lowered his head beneath the surface of the water, letting the sky become a wavering sheet above him. His hair floated around him, grasping at his skin, reminding him of his childhood. His mother had had them in the water, swimming and delighting in the ocean, for as long as he could remember. 

His sisters used to play a little game, hiding amongst the weeds where he couldn’t safely reach, and he had whined pitifully to his laughing mother. His hair floated around him now, and he was the little boy, finally able to hide amongst the weeds for those who would chase him.

One of the guards swam into view above him, and Jaskier could feel the rumbling of his shout. A moment later he was bending over, hands above, and that’s when Jaskier grinned and shot up.

He flew through the water and air, grabbing the guard and snarling, teeth tearing at his throat as his fingers gouged at his eyes. Blood was spurting, everything around him erupting in a fountain of screaming red, but Jaskier ignored it. He grabbed at the screaming guard’s sword, rolling away as the second guard brought his sword down and embedded it in the first guard with a sickening thunk.

Jaskier grinned, wiping blood from his mouth and raised the sword, driving it through the second guard’s eye. He didn’t stay to hear the solid thump of the dead man’s body collapsing as he rushed out the door, wet, naked, and covered in blood.

The stones were frigid beneath his feet, winter having solidly set in and the chill sinking as he shivered and ran. He didn’t care, he could find something to wear after he was gone. He would parade through camp as a limping whore for all he cared, as long as it was away from here.

But therein lay the problem. The only doors he knew were to his room and to the stairwell that led to his torture chamber. He turned, trying doors and cursing as his precious time ticked away.

One dusty chamber after another, none with unbarred windows through which to escape. What sort of madman built a keep like a town under siege!? There had to be a way out, he hadn’t been portaled in.

A chill ran down his spine at that thought. Perhaps he had been portaled in, and the only means of escape was through another portal. It would be an insane measure of security, but if Cahir had taught him nothing else, it was that Nilfgaard was led by the unhinged. 

The last door opened and Jaskier threw himself down the unfamiliar stairs. He didn’t care where they led, only that they led away. Away from the pain, away from the blood, and away from everything that tied him down and cut him into ribbons for macabre presents.

An eerie stillness was layered thick on the hallway at the bottom of the steps, but he could finally see light. The windows here were blessedly free from the iron bars of above, and Jaskier raised the bloody sword to smash the rose colored glass, sending it flying across the white snow below. 

He swallowed, and then jumped. It was only two stories up, he reasoned with himself midair. He had fallen from taller trees as a child. And anything would be better than surrendering himself back into Cahir’s gentle ministrations. 

The landing stole his breath away, the snow miserably thin, the cold tearing at his wet skin. His toes already felt numb, and his body ached as he rolled through glass. But he needed to get moving, it wouldn’t be long until it would be too hard too stumble as he began to lose feeling to the cold. He should have grabbed a piece of fabric from one of the upper rooms, he cursed himself. At least then he would have had some protection.

Shouting rose up from the ramparts, and Jaskier tried to rise to his feet, red stains blossoming across the snow around him as he ignored the glass. Later, he told himself, later. He could deal with the blood and pain later, once he was free.

Snow whiffed upward near him as he stumbled away, and another arrow appeared in the snow next to him. He cursed, trying to drag himself sideways, doing anything to avoid being a target, but it was hopeless. Pain searing through his leg sent him stumbling to the ground, and he lay there, panting, staring at the arrow.

He tried to rise to his feet again, he could hear soldiers storming his way, but another arrow embedded itself near his head. He growled, gripping the sword and watching as Cahir led the soldiers closer.

Fury was written clearly across his face.

“You ill begotten whoreson,” Cahir hissed, looming over Jaskier.

Jaskier growled, swinging his sword wildly, knowing that he could never hope to score a hit, but trying none the less. Cahir slapped the blade away with his own and then brought his heel down on Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier felt blood washing freshly through his mouth as he bit his lip, trying to swallow the howl of pain down. He glared up at the victorious Cahir, and spat. Red blood and spit streaked against his leg, but it was enough for Cahir to grind his heel down harder.

“Get him up and take him to his chambers. And do not let him loose again,” Cahir spat, stepping aside as the soldiers surrounded him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: o.o
> 
> Eskel: o.o
> 
> Lambert: I am not walking into a room until that man has been tossed a steak!
> 
> Geralt: he didn’t used to eat people! Eskel, wtf did you do!?
> 
> Eskel: me!? I didn’t do anything, we just fucked! Fucking doesn’t turn people into cannibals!
> 
> *Cahir stands awkwardly in the background*


	24. Chapter 24

Lambert had finally drunk himself unconscious sometime earlier in the afternoon, and now Eskel came up to find Geralt standing in the frigid twilight, staring south. It was no use keeping guard against the sky any longer, mice and foxes had been finding their way in, dragging with them the gore filled messages that haunted Eskel’s dreams.

His brother didn’t so much as glance his way, but he knew he was there. There was no way for him not to. Eskel may have been recovering well, Vesemir had him training Ciri most mornings now, but he had made enough noise to alert anyone who may be up here. 

“He’s still alive,” Eskel said, falling in next to him and watching the sky bleed away into darkness.

He swallowed hard at the thought. Was Jaskier bleeding away even now, fading beyond any hope of rescue? The man was strong, had fought his way free and escaped before. But he wouldn’t wish this winter on anyone’s travels. War left everyone starving, and there would be no kindness for another needy mouth.

“Only because they need him to be,” Geralt growled. 

“And that gives him more time to plan an escape,” Eskel countered.

Geralt shot him a glare, and Eskel just grinned. His brother had traveled with the man for twenty years and still just dismissed him as a bard. And Eskel, who had traveled with him for nearly twenty days, had never really heard him sing, but had certainly seen him put his mind to use.

“That year you couldn’t find him, he was being held by Nilfgaard,” Eskel told him.

He hadn’t really known how to broach the subject before, the fact that Geralt had asked them to keep an eye out for Jaskier at all was a shock, but he knew his brother. He knew how hard he wore guilt, and how he could find a way to take that mantle no matter how undeserved it was.

“Wasn’t your fault, so don’t start looking for a way to blame yourself. Fool got caught rolling around in the Emperor of Nilfgaard’s damn bed with a spy.”

Geralt snorted and grinned at that.

“Not keeping it in his pants always did get him into trouble,” Geralt said with a laugh.

“Yes, well, by the time I found him, after he escaped, I’m surprised he was still able to stand, let alone drag himself across half the damn Continent. But he did, even with damn iron spikes driven into his leg. And so now, whatever they’re doing to him this time? He can survive,” Eskel told him.

Geralt pulled the thick wool cloak tighter around himself, but his stench of guilt didn’t increase. He was the same miserable bastard he had been for years, all sharp corners and hard edges. Eskel missed the soft little brown haired boy that had been his friend nearly a century back.

But they were witchers, and softness got them killed on the Path. And while Eskel wore his shields well enough, Geralt had cracked through and drowned in his. Jaskier had helped, and Ciri helped more. But this winter he was broken, and it was making living in the Keep with him hard.

And his brother was too bullheaded, blinded by his own guilt and grief, to see it.

It should be Vesemir up here, giving him a speech about pulling himself together before he got himself flung down the damn mountain, but the old man had hidden himself away and left it to Eskel. Eskel who had lost just as much as Geralt, if not more, and wanted to join his brother on a suicidal charge through the snow to rescue a stubborn man that had managed to get himself caught by Nilfgaard not once but twice.

But Lambert was holding his pain too tight to his chest to be of help tonight, and Ciri was still mourning the second time her life had fallen apart around her and afraid she was watching it fall to pieces a third time, and so that left him. He was the only one that could haul himself up onto the ramparts and stand in the snow and knock some sense into his dense brother.

Hopefully more metaphorically than really, because, healing or not, he was still sure that Geralt could easily take him in a fight at the moment, his grief and anger giving him an edge that Eskel didn’t want to test.

“So you need to pull yourself together and quit blaming yourself. You’re trying to carry this heavy burden like it’s yours and yours alone, and ignoring what it’s doing to everyone around you,” Eskel said, trying to keep his voice calm.

“I’m not-”

“You are. You always are, ever since Blaviken you’ve blamed yourself for everything. And before that you tried to be a knight in shining armor out to save the world. But none of us are either of those things, we’re witchers. Most everything isn’t our fault, we’re just there to help and clean up the damn mess someone else left behind.”

“The only reason Nilfgaard was hunting Jaskier was because of me,” Geralt growled, glaring at Eskel. “The only reason they’re ripping him apart and sending us the pieces is because of me.

“And whatever their goal, they’re succeeding. We’re all coming apart at the fucking seams, and you’re just making it worse!” Eskel snapped at him.

Geralt didn’t say anything, but Eskel could see the shift in his stance, the anger in his eyes. His brother was dense, had been ignoring everything that had been going wrong around them, but he had at least known how brittle they all were this winter. 

And, truth be told, it was partially his fault. But because he was ignoring them and pushing them away, not because of Nilfgaard’s action. No one could blame themselves for the actions of madmen, not at the level of cruelty that Nilfgaard practiced.

“You think you’re not the first one to have someone they care for taken apart piece by piece? Look at Lambert! Look at what all of this is doing to our brother, what it’s making him relive!”

“Lambert never had a damn-”

“Lambert had Aiden, and he doesn’t anymore. He knows the ins and outs of where they’re holding Jaskier without a thought. And Aiden isn’t here. He’s drinking himself into oblivion when he isn’t up here, damn near falling off and trying to shoot down birds that could be carrying little pieces of Jaskier.

“He’s doing all of that for you, trying to ignore everything, but you storm and rage and push him away. And he doesn’t know who to turn to because Aiden isn’t here, he’s a stain smeared across stones in a Nilfgaardian prison because Lambert couldn’t save him alone. And you can’t do this alone either. You need us, and you need to quit turning away and making everything worse.”

Eskel’s breath hung in the air between them, a ghostly image in the dark, and Geralt swallowed hard. His brother had been dense, and in his pain he had ignored the pain of everyone else. And Eskel wanted to comfort him but he couldn’t without Geralt pushing him away and spitting words about pity that weren’t true but hurtful none the less.

If there was one thing they had all learned over the years it was how to hurt each other without picking up a single blade.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt finally said, his head dipped low.

“I’m not the one that you owe an apology too. And, to be honest, I doubt Lambert would accept it if you even try. Pull yourself together, work with us. So that, when the snow melts and the spring comes, we can leave the mountain and stick a sword down that Nilfgaardian fuck’s craw,” Eskel said. 

Geralt smiled and nodded, and that was enough for him. It would have to be enough, it was as good a heartfelt apology as his brother could give. And a promise that, come the world blossoming to green, he would paint the land red with Nilfgaardian blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eskel: you’re being an ass
> 
> Geralt: am not!
> 
> Eskel: are too!
> 
> Geralt: am not!
> 
> Eskel: are too, are too, are too!
> 
> Geralt: am not, am not, am not!
> 
> *Lambert pushed both the morons off the wall and goes back to bed*


	25. Chapter 25

Jaskier didn’t miss the feather bed that they had tied him to before. He didn’t miss the soft sheets, the warm blankets, or any of the other little tidbits that Cahir had allowed him when he had first been captured. He didn’t even miss the filling meals and the passable wines he had dined on.

No, what he truly missed now, as he on the cold stone floor, bound and gagged, were the baths. There was nothing so luxurious in all the universe as a good bath, and now he missed them. He reeked, his clothes soiled with blood and filth, and he longed for warm water and scented soaps.

He should have saved enough strength to rip out Cahir’s throat too after he had gone out the window. He may have died swiftly after that, but at least he would have taken Cahir with him. And he would have ended Geralt’s suffering. If they had still carved him apart to send up north after that Geralt would have smelled his death and ignored the rotting bits of bone and flesh.

Or, at least, waited before charging into Cahir’s trap. Bidding farewell to a corpse is much less pressing than saving a, well, whatever he was to Geralt. Had been to Geralt. Twenty years had been a long time, but the last several had been strained.

Former travel companions. Even if one was a gigantic ass that acted like he had a cactus shoved up his ass half the time.

The door opened, and Jaskier watched as Cahir entered, nodding for the guards to leave them be. It’s not like he could jump up and take the man by surprise now. Although, if he grit his teeth and tried, he could, possibly, at least break Cahir’s nose. Something was better than nothing.

Cahir set the tray he was carrying on the floor next to him. A bowl, most likely the stale, reeking water they had been pouring on him the last few days when claiming to try to keep him alive. A few scraps of dry bread, a fatty piece of meat. At least it looked partially cooked, that first night the guards had tried to stuff raw filth down his throat when ribbing about how animals ate.

He didn’t need a witcher’s senses to know that the guards feared him. He had killed two of their own, naked and unarmed, and still Cahir had them ordered to keep him alive. He wondered if he haunted their nightmares and woke them in shaking, sweaty terror in the darkest parts of the night.

He fucking hope he did.

“My men, it seems, are rather reluctant to go through the necessities of keeping you alive,” Cahir said.

Jaskier hummed his approval. He had proven that his bite was just as deadly as his bark. Let them piss themselves if he glared too long in their general direction.

“Although I have assured them that, in your current state, another repeat of such antics would be quite impossible,” Cahir smiled, his hand sliding carefully down Jaskier’s leg and pressing down painfully on the break.

He growled, forgoing any attempt at trying to scream obscenities through the gag, as he felt bones shift under his skin. They were loosely bound, the healer had been hurried in her movements, eager to be away from the feral prisoner, and Jaskier could almost feel the bones healing crooked.

He strained his wrists against his bonds, still the silk ropes of earlier, but not a strand moved. Oh to have Cahir remove the filthy rag from his mouth so he could greet death and drag that asshole into the afterlife with him on a river of blood.

Cahir tssked as he stared down into Jaskier’s furious eyes, but he moved his hand away, and Jaskier was grateful. He wasn’t sure he could limp away like this, but the most he could do was let his body try to stitch itself back together so he could try. He wasn’t going to have Geralt bitching and moaning about how much more of a pain in his ass he was because of a badly healed broken leg.

“It is a wonder that your witcher hasn’t ridden down from his snowy abode and come to rescue you,” Cahir said, absently dipping the stale bread in water. “I would have assumed he would have broken after the first or second little offering. But no. Is it because he considers you tainted? Your wolves are not infamous for sharing, perhaps your indiscretion has driven him away?”

Jaskier just snorted at that. Was Cahir trying to torture him with twisting and hurtful words now? The very thought of Geralt being upset about him being impure was laughable at best, he wasn’t the only one between the two of them that knew his way around the lurid backwater brothels. 

Hell, more than a few knew Geralt by name, and several gave him discounts!

No, if Cahir thought calling him a slut was going to hit a nerve he knew so little that it was laughable. Jaskier enjoyed the hedonistic pleasures of life quite freely, and never made any attempt to hide it. 

“Or, perhaps he has deserted you, decided that your life is no longer the precious beating thing worth saving, and has chosen to abandon you at your darkest hour.”

Jaskier just hummed at that. While, no matter how they had parted, he knew Geralt would have tried to save him if he could, he also knew there were more important things in this world than his sad little life. He had walked the world with him for twenty years, enjoying the freedom of his life and his choices.

He had been granted the luxury of living a life few others could ever say they dared. He was happy with how that had turned out, and if it ended here, at least his songs still graced the lips of bards across the Continent, and his songs would not soon be forgotten.

What better gift could a man ask for than the immortality of their works to last on, ringing through the darkness, forever?

The bread had torn itself apart in the water, floating away into a cloudy liquid, and Jaskier hoped that it would at least make it more palatable. A touch of salt, a lingering crunch of crumbs too far gone toward stone to ever become soft again. He was almost looking forward to it out of curiosity.

“All this time together, and for him to shed you as one throws away an old, battered rug. Such a disappointing end,” Cahir smiled calmly, sending shivers down Jaskier’s spine.

The cold cruelty was hard set in the man’s eyes, and that smile was the smile he had seen so often before, when he had a knife in hand and carved upon him. The smile of one so far out of their mind that there was no way for it to ever piece it back together again.

“Or, perhaps, I have not sent him warning enough of what torture you endure. Perhaps he doubts the situation you are in, and thinks you can hold out with a few little bleeding pricks to drain you during the long winter,” Cahir’s eyes lit up and he pulled out his knife and a little scrap of wool, and Jaskier whined behind the gag.

Cahir ignore his voiceless plea, and brought the cloth down against the side of his head, the knife following swiftly. Tears beaded in his eyes as the man cut away flesh and hair alike, wiping generously with the rag as he bled into it. What was the point? Didn’t he realize by now that he had killed the only witcher that would have ever come for him in the first place?

All of this was useless.

But Cahir was a zealot, devoted and insane. No amount of sense could ever be knocked into that thick skull of his, and he would never stop slicing him apart, Jaskier realized. Nothing would ever make him stop.

Jaskier grit his teeth as Cahir pulled the rag away, blood still streaming down his face and neck, warm against the winter chill. He was folding the rag carefully, the knife sheathed away, when Jaskier shifted.

His legs both screamed in unfamiliar agony, but he pushed the pain away. He just needed a few moments, he told himself. He wouldn’t be holding weight on them for more than a moment or two, just long enough to remind Cahir, personally, that he was not a limp man to practice his sadism upon.

His muscles quivered and Jaskier launched himself forward, slamming his head into Cahir’s face and enjoying the feeling of bone breaking apart under the impact. Let him send that rag to Geralt now, stained with their intermingled blood. Let Geralt know that he could take all the time in the world, Jaskier wasn’t some fucking maiden, waiting to be rescued.

Cahir slammed his fist into the side of his head, cursing and sputtering, blood dripping down his face, spurting from between his fingers, covering the carefully folded scrap of wool.

Jaskier curled in on himself as Cahir slammed his foot into him several more times, a rib giving way, the bone in one leg horrifically out of place now. But he took it with grace, and continued to hum to himself as Cahir stormed out the door, the room going dark as the lantern vanished with him.

Toss a coin to your witcher…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cahir: you’re a dirty whore!
> 
> *Jaskier makes shocked Jaskier noises*
> 
> Jaskier: you take that back this instant! I’ll have you know I have a completely clean bill of health, and I bathe regularly!
> 
> Cahir: … you’re a whore?
> 
> Jaskier: oh please, I would never dream of denying the world my love because of coin. I never charge for pleasure.
> 
> Cahir: err, my textbook says these insults are supposed to humble you and lower your self esteem so I can mentally break you
> 
> *Jaskier looks at the textbook*
> 
> Jaskier: the example is for princesses and fair maidens?
> 
> Cahir: you wear silk!
> 
> Jaskier: because it’s comfortable and I’m a hedonistic slut!
> 
> *Cahir blinks and stares*
> 
> *Jaskier stares back*
> 
> *Cahir slinks off to do more research*


	26. Chapter 26

The last wolves of Kaer Morhen gathered around the table and stared down at the half mangled bundle of bloody wool and hair. The mouse that had managed to drag it in, half mangled itself, had died quickly after Lambert had found it, panting and squeaking pitifully by the main fireplace. 

Eskel felt sorry for the number of animals that Nilfgaard had gone out of their way to sacrifice so far, though he was impressed on how well their spells held up over such a distance. Most animals would have gone mad and done anything they could to avoid being forced into the Keep.

But still, this piece of cloth stood out in stark contrast from the others. Yes, the dried smears of blood stood out, horrifically, as Jaskier’s. But they weren’t alone.

And, no matter what had happened, Jaskier had not been afraid. He had been furious. The anger, a deep seething contentment, wafted from the wool, granting it a heady, battle scarred scent. Eskel was impressed, not many people could feel hate on that level, though he could understand.

Torture could bring out a lot of feelings that people rarely unburied in their lives.

“I don’t understand,” Geralt finally said. “It’s Jaskier’s hair, but that’s not his blood. Not all of it.”

“No shit,” Lambert snorted, eyeing the wool warily. “That’s the fucker that’s sticking knives in him.”

“Then why is his blood on the fabric,” Geralt demanded. “Is he taunting us?!”

Vesemir snorted, staring at the fabric thoughtfully, and Eskel realized that his mentor had come to the same conclusion he had: Jaskier was fighting back. Rather aggressively, and suddenly. It was as much a message to them as the ones Nilfgaard was sending.

Whatever was happening to him, he was still strong enough to draw blood. And he was making them fight and pay for every drop of his that they had stolen. He was proud of the man, most others would have long since lain down and given up. He could only imagine how enraged his Nilfgaardian captors must be with him at this point.

“He inured his captor,” Eskel said. “I told you he managed to fight his way free once, he’s trying to do it again. This at least buys us a little time to try to get to him.”

“It also means they’re going to start beating him harder,” Lambert said, his face a dark scowl. “Men like Nilfgaard beat the dog that bites him. It means we need to get to him faster, not slower. He doesn’t have much time left if he’s making them bleed.”

The fact that Lambert knew this so well was left ignored. It was best to let him to his grief on his own at the moment. And Eskel could only hope that actually saving someone from Nilfgaard’s clutches, and spilling blood freely while doing so, would help him.

Revenge was a dirty business, and he had seen it ruin men for decades, but at least they could guide it this time.

“All the more reason to free him now, they won’t expect us to come for him in the dead of winter,” Geralt argued. “We can grab him and return, and leave their fortress a ruin to remember us by.”

Vesemir drew their attention with a cough, looking sternly between them.

“You have a child surprise that we can’t leave alone up here, because it’s her they want, not you,” Vesemir reminded him. “And they have eyes on us, even if they cannot risk attack. Sneaking down plains of blinding snow is no easy thing, nor something I think we can trust to do safely.”

Geralt growled, but their old teacher was right. They weren’t mages, not properly, they couldn’t hide their movements from those that were watching. And racing down south across the Continent would take time, time that Nilfgaard spies would have to send word ahead in warning.

“You need to call the witch,” Lambert agreed. 

“You think Yenn’s not busy enough helping fight the war as it is,” Geralt growled. “She’s not sitting on her ass drinking wine!”

“I never fucking said she was, but there are fucking mages guarding their fortress, and there’s only so much Eskel’s fire can burn!” Lambert growled back. “There’s no fucking point in even trying if we aren’t going to do it right!

“Because do you know what they do when they think they’re about to lose their bargaining chip? They kill him, and they drape his corpse across the battlements and put his fucking head on a spike to show that they won,” Lambert roared, tears in his eyes and he stormed out of the room.

The three left in the room watched him go, his misery swirling thickly around him.

“He’s right, we do this right or we don’t risk it at all,” Vesemir agreed, nodding at Eskel as he leaned toward where Lambert had left. 

Eskel nodded and chased after his brother. The world may be storming around them, but they at least had each other. And they could at least comfort one another.

* * *

He found Eskel on the wall, staring south, too stubborn to shiver as the snow fell around him. Esekl sighed and cast a quick ignii to light the fire, drawing his attention. There were tears in his eyes, and a flask in his hand.

And he smelled of the rot of guilt and misery that still floated around Geralt most nights.

He stood by him, silently, staring out at the darkness and wondering who was staring up at them now, spying and studying their movements. How many spies had Nilfgaard hidden away in the foothills of the mountain, plotting the second fall of Kaer Morhen.

“Took me two months to find him,” Lambert finally said, his voice slurring slightly as he took another drink of whatever foul concoction he had hidden away in the flask.

It wasn’t melting through the flask though, so it, hopefully, wouldn’t kill him.

“We were supposed to meet up that spring, and he never showed. So I had to hunt him down, and found their stronghold. Stonework twice the fucking craft of the Keep, regiments of soldiers, twisted half trained mages. Godsdamn fucking nightmare,” Lambert continued, and Eskel listened.

His brother had been holding this too close to his heart for too long, and it had begun to eat at him. All he could do now was stand and support him as he drew the poison out. His little brother, who bristled and bit at everyone around him, deserved at least this.

“I could hear him screaming from the forest. Day after day, and when it stopped I was afraid it would never start again. How fucked up is that, I was hiding in the fucking forest, hoping for him to scream just so I could know he was still alive!”

Eskel put his arm around his brother’s shoulder, trying to comfort him, but Lambert just shrugged it off with a shake of his head. So Eskel stood and listened, making sure the fire didn’t go out.

“Took me a fucking month to finally break in. And when I found him,” Lambert choked back a sob. “They had him bound in dimeritium chains! Had cut off pieces, his left arm and eye were gone, half his right leg. They were taking him apart, piece by bloody piece, to see how he ticked. To see how a fucking witcher worked, and if they could make their own.”

Eskel’s face tightened at that. That was horrific on more scales than he could imagine. He had never met Aiden, but he would have never wished anything of the kind on even his worse enemy. 

Hopefully Nilfgaard had not found what they were searching for. There were enough witchers already forced to suffer their walks across the Continent, they did not need to breed a new class to suffer with them. He could only imagine what Nilfgaard would do to any that passed the Trials.

“Begged me to kill him. He just lay there, panting, in pain, and begged me to kill him and make it all stop,” Lambert said furiously, tears streaming down his face.

Eskel rested his hand on Lambert’s shoulder as his brother downed the last of the flask, wiping at his face. He shook his head as Eskel nodded to go back inside. So they stood there, the snowing starting to come down, Lambert’s breath heaving as he tried to find his voice again.

“So I pulled out that knife, that little rabbit sticker he gave me as a joke,” Lambert shuddered. “I burned him before I left. Burned as much as I could before they noticed. Must have burned enough to ruin all their damn experiments.

“The next day they had what was left spread apart and draped over-”

“You saved him,” Eskel cut him off, knowing what had happened, and what could happen to Jaskier now if they failed.

“Didn’t fucking save him,” Lambert spat. “But I’ll save your damn bard and take that knife and carve that Nilfgaardian fuck to pieces as he screams and knows its me.”

Eskel nodded, squeezing Lambert’s shoulder. Nilfgaard was prepared for Geralt’s anger, but they had the full fury of Kaer Morhen looming, and all wolves would have their bloody revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: O.o
> 
> *Everyone hugs Lambert*
> 
> *Lambert fights and bites and complains*
> 
> Jaskier: very touching, but can you please come save me now!? I would like all limbs where they are, I’ve known them my entire life and have become very attached!
> 
> Eskel: oh yeah, we should get on planning that or something
> 
> Jaskier: yes, you very much should!
> 
> *Lambert begins loading bombs and knives into his pack*


	27. Chapter 27

Jaskier would have split his face grinning when Cahir next returned to the room, his face a mass of swelling purple, his nose slightly crooked. No matter what was done to him now, that was the mark he had left on his killer’s face.

Cahir, ever calm, showed no sign of anger. But Jaskier could almost feel it, burning beneath his skin and crackling through the air. The man was furious, his eyes a flaming hell.

The fact that Jaskier had had no food, and only water splashed across his face, in nearly three days also added to his certainty. Even laying against the cold ground was difficult, his head swimming from hunger and thirst, his legs burning.

If he could bring himself to shift and see, he was sure he would only confirm it. His broken bones had torn through flesh as he had fought, and now they were infected.

He could almost laugh. All of Cahir’s sweet and tender care, and it would be his own body that would betray him, burning him up from the inside out by wounds he caused himself. Maybe Geralt would be able to smell it, and know not to come for a lost cause.

Cahir leaned down, his hands steady, and Jaskier growled, shoving his head in Cahir’s direction and having the satisfaction of seeing the man take a step back. Fear wouldn’t go far in helping him escape, but it certainly did wonders in making him feel better. Fear was good at times.

“You truly are a feral creature,” Cahir said, crouching down and grabbing Jaskier’s hair, forcing his head back.

Jaskier wheezed through the cloth gag, but didn’t make a move to attack. There wasn’t much more he could do anymore. His legs were broken from his earlier attempt, his vision swam, and he doubted he could hobble out another window.

So he glared and listened. A little food and drink would go a long way toward another attempt.

“They thought a beast had wandered in from the woods and slaughtered your captors in the south,” Cahir continued. “One of the maids even swore to it. But now I see it was just you. Is that why you traveled with witchers? Because you would claw and tear your way through the land without restraint if not kept by your captors?

“There are stories of unwanted children tossed away as sacrifices to them. You’re clearly not one yourself, but perhaps you were raised as a pet? Feral and half mutated, good for nothing but bringing them pleasure.”

Jaskier snorted at the ridiculousness of the story that Cahir was painting. He was taking every step in every direction but the right one to make him into a monster. Or whore to monsters, Cahir didn’t seem to really differentiate between the two. A sadness, really, for any lovers that he had.

He could only imagine how dispassionate the Nilfgaardian was in bed if he thought so lowly of the ones that occupied it. Though, given some of the religious zealots he had come across in his life, perhaps it wasn’t even his own hand that occupied him.

“You managed to magic yourself free of iron chains, twisting them with strength they could not imagine you having. So, to ensure that you remain here, tucked safely away until your masters come for you, I have a new little present,” Cahir smiled, a painful, creaking thing, and the door opened, two guards stumbling in with armfuls of chains and binds.

Jaskier snorted. Getting free would be more difficult this time, Cahir wasn’t doing him the pleasure of embedding convenient weapons into his body, but he would. Even if he had to grind the manacles against the stone walls to wear them away, he would escape.

The guards were stern faced but jumpy, flinching when Jaskier growled and thrashed painfully in their direction. Cahir frowned and Jaskier wished his mouth was free so he could gnash his teeth and bite at them. If they thought him an animal then he would bite their fucking hands off to prove how dangerous he was.

Or their throats, if any of them were stupid enough to ever get close enough to him again.

Cahir kicked at his head and Jaskier fell still to the floor, panting as the world spun around him. It hadn’t been a hard kick, but it had been solid, and he could feel blood seeping from the barely healed wound already. 

The guards too their chance and stepped forward, slamming cuffs closed around his wrists and ankles, checking the chains and stepping back. Metal twisted with the silk ropes they hadn’t bothered, or had been too afraid, to remove, and Jaskier moaned piteously.

In truth the metal was nothing more than a cold, hard promise from Cahir that he was going to die here. There was no burning, just the tingling pain of unwanted imprisonment. But, if they wanted a show and to believe him some form of magical beast, he would give them the entertainment they craved.

Maybe he would be able to use it to his advantage. Let them lower their guard and think him completely controlled.

So Jaskier thrashed weakly, mewling and letting his eyes roll wildly in his head. The muffled whimpers of pain were real enough as the broken bones in his leg continued to shift, but there was no helping that. He couldn’t win if he wasn’t willing to bet everything on this little play.

And he did have so little to bet with these days.

The guards eyed him nervously as Jaskier finally slumped forward, sweat dripping down his body, his limbs aching with the exertion, and Cahir continuing to stare down at him. From a safe distance several steps away once more. If the little act had done nothing else, it had also let Jaskier explore the limitations of the chains.

He had enough give that he could probably pull them over someone’s head and strangle them to death. He most likely wouldn’t survive any force used in an attempt to save his victim, but he would take that person with him. And he aimed for that to be Cahir when he made his move.

“It seems I was right. To think that we went through all that trouble in Lettenhove when they were doing nothing more than protecting another creature,” Cahir smiled, and Jaskier growled back up at him.

The reminder of what Nilfgaard had done to his home was not appreciated.

“Did they have a treaty with Kaer Morhen? Their only son for the protection of the wolves?”

Jaskier continued to eye him silently, wishing he would take a step forward.

But the man remained safely out of reach, his splotchy face, unfortunately, having taught him just how hard Jaskier could bite even when bound.

“No matter. The wolves could not even protect their own, they are down to just the last three after the one you bedded was left burned in the forest. And three cannot hold out against the might of the White Flame. They will come to crumble in a short amount of time, and then we shall have the princess as the emperor desires,” Cahir smiled, nodding at the guards.

The two men stepped forward and Jaskier howled as the beating commenced. His broken bones shifted painfully and began to unravel muscle as skin split and blood poured forth. His vision swam as he curled up, trying desperately to protect anything at all, in vain.

The passage of decades seemed to flow around him before it finally came to an end, and he could feel cloth sopping against his wounds. Soft cloth, smooth and luxurious, unlike the scraps of wool that Cahir had always used before.

He let his eyes open, the will to move even those muscles exhausting, and watched as Cahir used a silk doublet to mop up his blood. It wasn’t one of his, what wardrobe he did have was most likely long since gone in Oxenfurt from a lifetime ago, but it was something he would have worn. Back in the days before this hell began to burn around him.

“I have the patience of the winter, but I doubt you have the blood to survive it. Let us hope your friend comes for you before there is nothing left to clean,” Cahir said, pulling back with the sopping silk fabric.

Blood could never be properly washed from silk, Jaskier thought dully. He knew that from long experience.

“See that he is properly fed and watered, and have a healer tend to his wounds. I need him alive for awhile yet,” Cahir said, nodding at the guards.

Jaskier didn’t care. He needed to rest and gather his strength to kill that man, but he wouldn’t be able to do it today. Not now, not like this. So he closed his eyes and let the darkness wash over him and dreamt of the cold snap of Cahir’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: …
> 
> Me: err, sorry about that, let me take off the gag
> 
> *Me takes off Jaskier’s gag*
> 
> Jaskier: seriously, I’m the mouthy one! Gagging me is like sewing Deadpool’s mouth shut in that stupid Wolverine movie!
> 
> Me: so what you’re saying is that we have ‘Logan’ and two Deadpool movies in this fic’s future?
> 
> Jaskier: and two crappy Wolverine movies
> 
> Me: three really fucking great movies, one really shitty movie, and one with a bizarre Japanese samurai mech in it? I’ll take those odds
> 
> Cahir: I would like different odds! Those odds have people killing me painfully!
> 
> Me: there aren’t really any odds for you, you’ve got a former bard that can tear your throat out with his bare teeth and a group of witchers that want to carve you apart like a turkey. You’re fucked
> 
> Jaskier: not fucked literally of course, that’s vile and you’d probably give someone a disease. But I shall enjoy helping stab you!
> 
> *Cahir whimpers in a corner*


End file.
